What a difference a day makes, huh, Reader. Rhetorical, hence the not-a-question.
One minute I’m looking at this view from my very schmancy-fancy suite.
The next thing ya know I’m staring at wet leaves and a sad dinner.
In case you haven’t heard my insufferable boasting via Facebook pictures, I floated around the Caribbean in a very schmancy room with a separate bedroom, walk-in closet, double sinks, and a bathtub I could swim a lap in.
The balcony was so large, in a wrappy-aroundie kinda way, that I counted it as a workout walking from one end to the other.
There were TWO sets of sliding doors – one set from the bedroom, one set from the living room.
Of course, I count just about any type of movement as a workout. Because every step counts, Reader. My Fitbit
that I don’t wear ever says so.
The balcony – I keep wanting to write “MY balcony” but it’s not mine at all, and in fact has someone else’s fancy ass sitting on it as of yesterday – had sides with different views it was so wrappy-aroundie big.
One side offered a table, two seats, a viewfinder thingy that I was too short to properly see out of and for the first two days I thought it was broken because all I could see was darkness. Then it was pointed out to me that I was looking up into the sky and not at a particular thing.
Back when I was officially 5’3, I could have probably seen just fine out of it. But the doctor’s office now insists I’m 5’1, which is re-fucking-diculous, because you’re going to tell me that I’ve shrunk 2″ at the age of 50?? If I live to 80 I’ll be 3’5, basing that on the fact that the shrinking must happen at an accelerated rate with age because I was ALWAYS 5’3 until recently.
I was so put-off by the 5’1 diagnosis that I insisted on a re-heighting, making them measure me three times. I’m STILL not convinced, because they write the number down and then go consult with some conversion chart and then pronounce me 5’1.
Now, I don’t have a problem with 5’1. I have a problem with shrinking 2″. I guess I could settle this debate at home by marking my wall and measuring myself, however that seems like a bit more work than I’m interested in investing, except maybe now that I’ve typed it out loud I may get that done today after all. I’m all about making agreements with myself since I delved into reading my latest be-a-better-me book The Well Life while I was sitting on another section of
my the, sheesh, Reader I know it’s not MINE, stop yelling at me! balcony.
I sat out there and got some sun and read all about making agreements with myself, and forgiving myself as well as other a-holes who have traipsed in and out of my life, and maybe some of it is sinking in because man alive did I get a lot of my “agreements” accomplished in the first night since I’ve been home. Agreements are different from goals, because you tell yourself why you’ll be happier with accomplishing whatever it is, instead of just checking something off a list. For me, it seems to be a bit more motivating.
Except I’m still having a struggle with Being a Nice Human. I literally have a shirt that says BE A NICE HUMAN as a reminder to myself and others.
It’s not as easy as the big block letters would lead you to believe. Just this morning I told someone to Fuck Off via the interwebs. Because they were being an a-hole towards me, and the next thing you know I’m typing fuck you and MYOB.
So basically I’m an ongoing work in progress and a contradiction.
But back to this mack daddy balcony. There was a little quiet nook on one side that overlooked the water.
The other side wrapped to the interior / back of the ship, where we could enjoy the theater shows at night whilst in my pajamas….
….or watch people rock climb from the comfort of my pajamas while shoving small caramel cheesecakes in my cakehole.
The take-away is, I like to sit around in my pajamas. A lot. Probably because they are the only thing that’s comfy after all the small cakes. And the not-so-small cakes:
Yes, that actually was the dessert plank at our dinner table one night.
Yes, I tried all of them. Because see photo above.
my THE balcony at night, by the way.
One day I walked out on the balcony to hang up my bathing suit so it could dry off, and I traipsed out in only my pajama top, sans bottoms.
This conversation resulted:
Him: “you know, people can SEE you out there!”
Me: “yeah, but I’m only naked from the pussy down.”
So basically pussy-down naked is invisible.
In case you didn’t know.
And now you know. You’re welcome.