Here you are, feeling rather fabulous. The one who means the world to you tells you you are sexy. Your friends tell you you are looking great. Hell, you look at yourself in the mirror and say, Damn, Girl!  Looking good!.

You meet up with your beautiful and fabulous friend, Michèle, for a way-past-due lunch and you laugh and giggle and enjoy your tuna tartare and wine and dessert and coffee and next thing you know, you are the last ones in the restaurant and it’s been three hours of catching up.  A hug and a kiss and a promise it won’t be so long ’til the next time and we part ways.

I am right next to a large shopping mall so I figure I shall treat myself to something pretty and lacy. I have something in mind so I enter the store, walk around, don’t see what I want and move on to the next one.  Same thing until, bingo!  Exactomundo! And they have my size.  Now we’re talking. I enter the changing cabin, strip down to try on and suddenly, I am Cathy (shopping for suimsuits is just as disheartening).

So now my fabulous mood has vanished and I’m calling myself all sorts of names.  I chastise myself:  “Of course you had to ask for more croutons. Did you really need them?”

I get home, change into my workout clothes, bundle up and tell Zeke, who manages to work up a smidgeon of enthusiasm, that he cannot come as he is till limping and even if he were in fine form, I am on a mission and I have, no time for three hundred stop, sniff and pisses.  I look at my Fitbit and see I have 7000 steps to go. Or is it 8000? I don’t have my glasses and can’t see shit. Either way. I am out the door.

My pace is quick and my rant in my head turns into a composition for this here post. I walk and walk and walk. Check the Fitbit. Wha? Only 5K? Jee-zus.  Turn onto every curvy street determined to march off this mood.  Check again. 6K? WTF? Is this thing working?

Get to my house and I am a good 700 steps short. Screw it, I keep on and go once more around the block. I can’t believe it took me an HOUR to get my steps in!

I enter the house, pat Zeke on the head, strip and wash off because, despite being freeze-your-face cold, I have managed to work up a sweat.  Change back into regular clothes, take a look in the mirror, ignore my hat hair and note my bright eyes and rosy cheeks.

I then give myself a second scolding:  “Don’t you dare talk to yourself in that tone of voice again, Missy. D’y’hear me? You are fine, just like you are.  Next time go shopping BEFORE you eat lunch and drink half a bottle of wine. What the hell were you thinking?”