I really can’t stand victimhood. Some people can wallow in it, roll around in it and bake cookies with it, but I personally think it’s lame and it sucks and that there are far more interesting things to be had in life. No trauma ever gets me down for long. I just prefer it that way.
Which is why, after all my bitching and crying and relaying the story at length to everybody and questioning the neighbors ad nauseum, it was still so very frustrating not to have my usual, coma-like, sleep-of-the-dead eight hours per night. And I had no choice in the matter -- for more than a week, the deal was I would fall asleep for two or three hours, then wake up out of nowhere and obsess for about 6 hours, vainly attempting to return to my beloved Slumberland, a place I know and love and normally visit with admittedly luxurious regularity. But instead, my brain had to be going over all possible ins and outs of our house. What could we have done differently? Is our stuff being currently auctioned on ebay? Are the police even bothering to check the pawn shops for our piece-of-shit laptop? I want the photos that were on that thing, dammit! My jewelry box had been obviously rifled through, but nothing taken. Does this mean all the craptastic rings and necklaces I’ve bought at Claire’s for about $4.99 each that I love so much were considered in poor taste by our thieves and not even worthy of taking? If so, what does that say about my taste in accessories? What if it was somebody in our neighborhood who did this? Will I know it if I see them on the street, kind of like a sixth sense thing? Like a dog, will I smell my house on them and then try to whizz on their leg?
And then Super Bowl Sunday happened.
As many of you know, I adore Super Bowl. Not because of any slight interest in football or the traditional trans fat and alcohol consumption and TV-yelling and peanut gallerying that accompanies the day, but because it is the perfect day to go snowboarding. And this past Sunday, well! After what seems like centuries of bitterly cold weather around here, it was sunny, beautiful, spring-like, even up on the mountain! I couldn’t even wear a jacket! And the lift lines -- so short! And the people -- so happy! No attitude anywhere! And the man-made snow -- just manly enough and perfect for our purposes! To make matters even more blissful, my buddy Craig drove us in his sweet pimpin’ van, allowing me some nice and desperately needed nappage en route. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day.
Well, except for the face-plant I managed to procure. First day out of the season, it’s bound to happen. The ol’ muscle memory has to snap back into action, the brain is a little slow on the uptake, and post-lunch carelessness had set in. I was flying, thinking I was all The Shit and everything, and caught an edge, and flew head over board, twisting my neck during the somersault and planting a gnarly bruise on my right butt-cheek. With snow all in my face and down my back, Craiggie said I looked like I had taken a swing from Mike Tyson. Neat. I’ve been limping around like an old lady ever since then and can’t really turn my head to the right, but have slept solidly, blissfully ever since. And that is such a beautiful thing. I love you, Super Bowl.