Not So Fat (or phat) Tuesday

I woke up this morning and knew it was going to be a rough one. I got home later than usual from practice and that pushed my end of the night routine back by 45 minutes. By the time I turned on the Criminal Minds, it was already 8:45 and I only had an episode left before my self-mandated bedtime of 10 PM. When I got up this morning I was greeted by a headache in the middle of my forehead that is the Bat Signal for “Thanks for not getting enough sleep, moron.” I tried to shake it off by vigorously brushing my teeth, but that never works and didn’t work, so I don’t know what I was thinking.

*plays sad Charlie Brown music*

*plays sad Charlie Brown music*

I was a step away from zombie-mode driving into work and had decided to get breakfast from McDonalds, but in an absolutely shocking turn of events, my tongue didn’t want Coke. I acquired some before practice yesterday and by the end of practice, I didn’t want to drink anymore. It carried over to this morning while I moved along H1. I knew I needed the caffeine, but I opted against it, going with water instead. I regret it. I really do. I am beat.

"Mister, what are you listening to?"

“Mister, what are you listening to?”

I gobbled up my breakfast, then printed out my assignments for the day. When I returned to my classroom I was wiped out. It’s the human equivalent of not charging your phone overnight. I’m already in the 30% range and it’s first period. Feeling less than stellar, I played a video of Megadeth playing “Tornado of Souls” live, just so I could geek out over Marty Friedman’s nasty solo. Steve Vai’s “For the Love of God” is playing in the background as I type. It’s exactly the kind of thing I used to do to get myself up for baseball games in high school and I was hoping that maybe – I don’t know – it would some how translate 20 years later, but man, it does not. I have to do something, and I have one trick left: I know that I cannot sing, so when I sing, I am nervous, and that nervous energy is quickly accompanied by adrenaline. I then ride that adrenaline out for as long as I can. But I am alone in my classroom right now, so I will have to wait for students to enter my room next period. It’s looking like “Borderline” or “Cherish.” I can’t sing any song, but both of those songs are impossible-impossible for me to sing, so yeah, adrenaline.

Not even close.

Not even close.

I was pretty hungry on my home last night and serious thought about using Fat Tuesday as an excuse to pick up some kind of indulgent meal. But then I remembered that the period directly following Fat Tuesday is supposed to be one of discipline, and well, I’m not going to do that, so I just went home. I plopped myself down on the chair in the computer room. Lynnette entered. “Do you want me to heat up a manapua?” “Yes.” She’s a keeper, obviously. This is how I spent Fat Tuesday, not with bang, but a whimper: eating a manapua of a flimsy paper plate while checking every single one of my social media feeds. I want to defend this life I lead, but that would require a life to defend. Something about a logical fallacy.

Oh, on a side note: before I got in the shower I asked Lynnette if it looked like I was losing weight in my face, and she said it did appear that way. When we were lying in bed, she placed her hand on my chest and rubbed it. Eventually, this turned into an informal breast examination. “Your chi-chis are getting smaller!” she said. I didn’t even bother with the line about divorce. “Abby, daddy’s chi-chis are getting smaller! Give him high-five!” And that’s how I spent Fat Tuesday.

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