I'm tired of writing how my heart is hurting. I'm tired of actually having my heart be hurt. I'm tired of getting all worked up about something, only to find out that everything is, indeed, fine and I didn't need to get so upset.
In summary, I'm tired of dealing with other people.
Last night, Zac and I played on the floor: me assembling his foam puzzle from American Baby, and he destroying the said puzzle in his best, "I'm a toy-tester and no one can stop me," kind of way. I waited for the phone to ring. Waited for my heart to stop hurting.
It didn't happen.
Day 4 at the new job:
I bundled myself up today. There are nuns in Florida right now showing more skin than I am right now in my office. I'm wearing gray trousers, a white button-down shirt, black sweater vest, SOCKS, and black loafers. Yes - I do look like a pubscent, 1980's prep-school boy. Why do you ask?
I don't think that I've worn socks in over eight months. My feet are enjoying the cushy softness and it's mid-day and I can still feel my toes. Granted, I sweated all the way into work, trying to wipe the perspiration off my face to see the road through the blinding glare of the Houston sun.
But it's worth it.
Oh yes, it is worth it.
I'm considering purchasing a space heater next pay check, just to make sure that I don't cause any permanent damage to my extremities.