Flap-flappity flap flap flap.
So I have three more work days to finish before I get in my car, drive to Philly, pick up a buddy, and 8 hr it to Charlotte for a nice little checkout from the world at large.
I could be just a smidge more excited. But I do have to get through the next three days. I have a few more evening cases before Thursday. I have some high-profile meetings to attend in the dayjob and a boss to placate in his neverending search for paperwork. I have some Twitter addiction to resist. I have some clothes to wash--some larger clothes to buy, some bloating and fat to despise less. I'm also sporting a short fro these days because I hate cutting it or paying a barber to cut it. Perfectionist's Anonymous holla! If the cut goes wrong, I have to bear it for at least a month before it grows back. That dread is nothing unique, I know. It's the fact that I let the hair get shaggy and look raggedy INSTEAD of bearing a less than stellar haircut--now that's the rub. It's just that I've now got these long totally Reed Richards grey sideburns that I just really really like, and no matter how many times I tell these barbers "Do NOT touch the sideburns. Don't. DON'T." well fifteen minutes go by while they're yammering away and then next thing we know "zzzzip! zz-zzk-zzzzzzzzip!" sideburns gone up to the mid-ear. So yeah, I'd rather just do it myself, which I can, but I never can seem to get the hair to be even & very low on my own. My clipper ain't as sexy as the barbershop's.
Whatever. I'm just yammering away because the highlight of this trip is going to be breaking some bread with Ned and I'm trying not to let myself get all stupid and gushy about it. Remember, blog = stream of consciousness. Me not trying to say how I really feel while typing is like me trying not to think of the pink elephants that I just thought of. It'll be better to type about it after it's happened.
But I do see myself as a baby penguin right now. All floppy and small, little stubby wings that I keep throwing wide to gain my balance. Not as sleek and dark as the grown-ups, with the finely polished feathers. But no Dad penguin whose feet I could stand on and tuck out of harms way. Just ... how'd I get so damn brand new?