The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day Off

Today was supposed to be my day off.

That means I was under no obligation to conduct business of any kind. And I wasn't on the hook for child care, either.

Normally, a day off is a sure-fire mood boost. Today, not so much. Somehow it felt like everything went wrong – or not wrong, exactly, just not right.

For example, I had decided to treat myself to an afternoon of window-shopping downtown. So I walked the half-mile to the bus stop, and got there just in time to see the bus pulling away. So I waited for the next bus. When I could see it coming over the crest of the hill, I got out my wallet – and discovered I only had a $10 bill. As everyone knows, bus drivers don't make change. So, whether or not this was the most efficient solution, I walked all the way back home for dollar bills, then hoofed it back to the bus stop.

When I finally got downtown, I made the mistake of going into Buffalo Exchange, which was a madhouse. And although I can still pull clothes from the “small” rack, that doesn't mean they look good on me. I did find a cute pair of high-heeled boots, but they were $45 – out of the question, in other words. Then I decided to make things worse by going to Spartacus, where the outré lingerie failed to make me feel glamorous.

So I headed home by way of Voodoo Donuts. There was, as usual, a long line, and once again I wondered why they don't turn the sidewalk into a giant treadmill, so their customers can do some preventive calorie burning while they wait – and then, dismayed, realized I have become the sort of person who thinks about burning calories. Yep, I bought a bacon maple bar, which will no doubt end up as a permanent installation somewhere I really don't need it: bacon maple tummyroll, anyone?

The real problem with today, though, is yesterday.

Yesterday began well enough. I woke up and immediately began working on my essay, then went on a hike. Things started to go downhill as I went uphill.

In the time it took me to get from Timberline Lodge to the beginning of Mt. Hood's summer-diminished glacier, I had gone from feeling good about the morning's writing progress to mentally crafting a polite refusal to the Iowa Writers' Workshop: I regret to say that I will not be able to accept the Professorship you've so generously offered me – but I just can't move to the Midwest. I'm sure you can find some other famous essay writer to teach your nonfiction courses.

In other words, I fell off the wagon -- and I'm not talking about the donut.

You see, by the time I got back to my writing yesterday evening, I had turned the essay into a Really Big Deal, the Turning Point in my Writing Career, my Magnum Opus. Heavy stuff.

I just sat there looking at the screen, reading and re-reading the one page that's in anything like decent shape.

Today, I couldn't even bring myself to open the file. It seems that when an essay puts on too much weight, it turns into a Black Hole.