If I get any sexier I'm going to have to end this blog

I’m finally back from the David Gray concert in New York City. Yes, that was Saturday night and today is Tuesday, but I fell so in love with David Gray that I decided to sit on top of his tour bus for a few days, just to be close to him.

In a few words, underpasses suck.

I didn’t need my husband’s athletic cup during the show, but I could have used a sweat guard. We were in the third row and I could practically see the sweat flying off Mr. Gray’s body. Unlike Hunk-o-mania, I jumped up in the air to lap it up.

Yes, I am that much in love.

But like everything else, once something good crosses the border into Mulletville, it turns to shit. So now instead of basking in the warm glow of my newfound amour, I am hobbling along with my head down.

Why? My knee is busted.



I get sharp shooting pains when I walk, and I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s from carrying a 40-pound toddler? Perhaps it’s from running through the halls of work and trying to compensate for my still-healing sprained ankle by hopping on one leg?

Or maybe—and I think this is the most logical—my body dislikes Mulletville so much it’s decided to simply fall apart.

I’m being serious, here. I need a change. I’m in a big, fat funk and I don’t know how to get out of it. All I know is that the present situation isn’t working. My work environment is toxic. It’s a matriarchal system gone horribly, horribly wrong. My hometown depresses the hell out of me. It gets dark after lunch (slight exaggeration, I guess). I miss my son. I now limp on both sides of my body. And every Monday I sit next to a guy in a meeting whose Thoreau coffee mug always seems to be pointing at me. It reads:



Which makes me think of Oprah’s saying:

"If you do not listen to the whisper, you will then get a message, and if you don’t pay attention to the message, you will get a crisis, and eventually if you ignore that you will get a disaster. The first hint of fear, the first whisper that something is out of order, pay attention!"

Blah, blah, blaoprah. Let's rewind and read that Mullet-style:

"If you do not listen to the smushed finger and smashed car door, you will then get a smushed toe, and if you don’t pay attention to the smushed toe, you will get a sprained ankle, and eventually if you ignore that you will get a busted knee and pitiful case of woe-is-me. The first hint of a mullet, the first hairdo that is business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back, pay attention!”

Now look, I’d much rather lend my ear to Thoreau than Oprah, but the woman’s got a point. I think the Universe has been shouting at me (and my finger, toe, ankle and knee) for a while. I’m not sure what we’re going to do but holy shit, if I’m still blogging about my same woes in six months (or if I'm typing with a salad tong taped to my shoulder because I've lost my arm), I will end this blog.

Swear.to.blog.

(Hah! I'm so clever!)