I'm Still Gonna Go Out and Buy a Belt During Lunch

Last night, after two hours and 36 minutes of being a good girl and doing intense and frustrating physical therapy, I fell into a restless sleep, dreaming that my physical therapist was systematically trying to kill me. When I woke up late, for some reason still unbeknownst to me, kitty smacked me across the face. I sighed, got out of bed and put on the crisply ironed and professional-looking outfit I'd laid out last night

Rushing to work, I realized my fatal flaw for the day- I desperately needed a belt. My bottoms were sliding down my hips until my whale tail peeked out. Nothing says "take me seriously as a professional woman" like wearing your clothes in the same manner as America's least favorite jailbird. Needless to say, it was bad. It got even worse when I accidentally brushed past a man on the sidewalk. When I turned around to apologize for bumping him, he sized me(and my inadvertent whale tail) up and spat out, "Trashy bitch!"

And then, lying on the ground, a beacon of hope, a ray of sunshine in this otherwise bleak and muggy morning: the mini-frisbee that the Object had winged to the ground two days ago when we were walking home. The exact same one, in almost exactly the same place. I swooped down to pick it up and with a flick of my wrist, tossed it at my heckler, snapping, "I'm neither trash nor a bitch, but I do have good aim. This is trash, dickwad." And for once in my life, my physical prowess matched up to my mouth and the mini-frisbee hit him squarely in the nose.

I continued on my way to work, this time with the slightest hint of a smile turning up the corners of my mouth.