I think I must have been in a small, pink, velvety cloud for the last three weeks. It’s definitely fucked off somewhere else today, that’s for sure. After a great day yesterday, I’m feeling almightily pissed off about everything today. I’ve been a snappy, cranky, bastard of a crocodile. Everything little thing is making me want to scream with rage. And I’m still ill, and feeling utterly knackered to boot. I just want to climb into bed and cocoon myself in peace and quiet, in dim lighting.
Instead, I’ve spent the morning cleaning our living room in preparation for decorating the tree. And fending off one million questions from small people. This afternoon we’ve put up the decorations, and it’s been stressful and irritating to say the least. Mr Red and I have been looking forward to it, because this event last year was a complete delight, with the little twins tottering on their tiny steps, decorating the tree. This year it’s been, quite frankly, fucking annoying. Neither of us have felt full of Christmas cheer.
We’ve finally just sat down, Mr Red has a large mulled wine, and I’m really bloody jealous, so I’m filling my face with mince-pie and coffee to quell the huge bursts of envy. Whilst simultaneously trying to appear outwardly cool about it. And failing massively. And wondering why I decided to cook a Sunday dinner, what a blithering idiot.
I need to accept that not every day will be a great day.
I need to accept that sometimes I’m going to really, really want a drink.
I need to accept that some days I’ll just have to plaster a big fake smile on my face, even when I’m screaming on the inside.
Tomorrow is another day. It will be day 22, because I’m not going to fail.