I elected to stay home from work today, but I find myself around the corner at a coffee shop. It’s nine-thirty a.m., do you know where you realtor is? Actually, mine’s off the hook this morning – someone else was supposed to be showing the house.
But I’m sitting here, monitoring my email, waiting for that message that’s supposed to come when someone has activated the lock box at the house. I’m freakishly tired. By that I mean Jesus, the holy roller himself, could sit down beside me and ask (rhetorically) how church has been, and I’m not sure I’d be capable of a surprised or emotional response.
“Well, do you mind if I call you JC? To be honest it hasn’t been doing much for me lately. What about you? How are doing? Did you catch any Rays games this year? What does JC do when he wants to let his hair down, so to speak?”
I’m not keen on the idea of being in the house when it’s being shown, but I’m not going to sit in a coffee shop all day either, even if there’s a high likelihood someone showing the house later would come across the sleeping owner, dead to the world. I’m only sitting up now because I’m being propped up by a proper cup of coffee – in all its caffeinated glory. (Amen!)
Please don’t tell my doctor.
My patience is drawing thin. My head longs for its pillow. My sinuses plead for medication.
To hell with it. I’m going home.