Thank Goodness It's Friday

Sentencing day. I went to the doctor on my lunch break, and it went exactly as expected. Well-worth the ten dollar co-pay for him to poke my leg in a few places (“Does it hurt when I do this?” “Yes.”), diagnose the pain as “weird” and write me a prescription for an MRI. For a little perspective, I spent the same amount of money last night after haggling with a striking taxi driver, and that at least got my drunk ass home from the bar. Ugh. And it’s not like I can just waltz out the door and get the MRI. No, first the doctor's office has to contact my insurance company for authorization, then call me to say they have the authorization, and then I get to make an appointment at an inconveniently-located imaging center. After waiting a few days for results, I have to go back to the doctor. Every time I get injured I vow to quit running entirely, but once I get better and get back into it I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to stop. Oh right, now I remember. Jumping through hoops to get a diagnosis and a few weeks of physical therapy ends up being more painful than the original injury.

On an unrelated note, do fruit tarts count as pastries? I feel like they probably do, but I can rationally squeeze them past security because it’s a pastry covered with fruit, so it’s healthy! Either way, I just ate one and it was delicious. Let’s hope it was enough to stave off any potential emotional meltdown at the hands of low blood sugar and pent-up frustration.

Last night I met up with Former Roommate La at one of our favorite bars near her new apartment. Between her expert flirtation with the hot 39-year-old bartender (he’s a whole voting-age person older than her!) and our fan club of rowdy businessmen, my vodka tonics with extra lime and her Amstels were comped all night. Normally I hate accepting a drink from a guy because then I feel obligated to talk to him, but these dudes were middle-aged, harmless, thoroughly entertaining, and running a hefty tab on a corporate card – the exact kinds of people you want to meet at a bar. Good times had by all.

Fast forward to 7:42AM. I woke up three minutes before I’m supposed to be at the office, threw on some mostly-clean khakis and my Nice Hedge Fund polo shirt that they give out at orientation and that no one ever wears, and bolted for the door. I made it to work by 8AM where I promptly applied a liberal amount of deodorant to my underarms. I keep a stick in my desk drawer for just this occasion. Oh, but it's Friday - Gods of Four-Day Work Weeks, I love you.

I need a cookie, a hug and a shower. Maybe not in that order.