Recovering

I feel like I just ran a marathon. I sooo did not just run a marathon. At this point I'd be satisfied for the energy just to run up the steps! In the last two posts, I kind of purged my soul and gave you way too much information a better understanding of how and why I tick (like a time bomb.) I'm having those morning after regrets- what the hell was I thinking? Oh, come on, now, I'm not the only one that knows that feeling. The shame, the humiliation, the guilt- what about my reputation?

I will try my best to redeem myself as someone that deserves your respect. Luckily, yesterday was one of the worst days on file, so maybe after my recap, I will at least get a little sympathy.

My search for supplemental income continued and I decided to retreat to my old stand- by: retail. I love it and I'm good at at it, but unfortunately the hours are not kind to a family gal, like myself, but a woman must do what a woman must do. I had an interview with a particular lingerie boutique named after a Queen, but I can't tell you her name- shhhhh!

On the way to the interview, I got pulled over. I was speeding, I occasionally get caught up in my music and do that. Now, one may think that I have a 'get out of jail free' card since my husband is a policeman, but one would think wrong. Know why? Because I don't have balls. That's right! No balls. Ball-less. I couldn't muster up the courage to drop a name and use my husband's position to get me out of my predicament.

First you must know, all of my rebellious ways must have been a cry for help. Because I am really a chicken shit, deep down, a goody two shoes, wanting to please everyone. I have been pulled over 5 times in my life. Each time, I get a rush of anxiety, start trembling uncontrollably and feel like I'm going to vomit.

This time was no exception. He asks for my license and proof of insurance. My license was stuck to the plexi in my wallet- does anyone not have this problem? So I'm shaking like a Parkinson's patient that decided to tough it out without the meds AND my license is snugly adhered to the plastic- and it ain't coming out. He saw my struggle, watched it without an ounce of compassion while he shuffled the huge lump of tobacco behind his lower lip, pulling up loogies and disposing of them next to my car!

He retreated to his car to decide my fate. It took a while, never a good sign. I wasn't getting off with a warning, the cleavage meant nothing! He returned with his clipboard and rambled how I was going 16 miles over the speed limit and by signing this, it is not an admission of guilt... yada, yada, yada... So with a $150 fine staring me in the face- I found the balls!

So would it mean anything that my husband is a policeman?

Well, apparently, my lack of balls pissed him off, too. He asked why I didn't tell him before. Then the balls became like elephantitus and I was no longer in control of what was coming out of my mouth. I accused him of being uncompassionate, cold, and unsympathetic to my perpetual trembling and obvious fear. Blamed him for my impending tardy arrival at my interview. Oh yeah, I mentioned how inappropriate and unprofessional spitting his chew was!

I don't have to tell you, I got the ticket. I called my husband and had to listen to him rip me new one for 1.) speeding 2.) not using his name before he wrote the ticket 3.) locating balls in an untimely manner.