This is a Wrist to Forehead Sunday post. Seriously, I have spent at least portions of the last three days inclined to burst into tears at the slightest provocation, and, really, I must admit, the provocations in my life are slight. I really do have a pretty good life: like my job OK, love my husband, have a great dog. And yet, it’s just not easy being me.
I think I mentioned in a previous post being a theatre junkie. Some people might use a less polite word for it, but I think junkie works just fine, thank you. I became secretary of Ilion Little Theatre Club, pretty much because somebody asked me to. I am in two performances of Strike Story next weekend, just because somebody asked me to. And I have been at the theatre for the past two days and will be there this afternoon, because… if you guessed somebody asked me to, YOU’RE WRONG! Nobody asked me to! I volunteered!
Some people would say it is not a wrist to forehead situation when it is your own stupid fault, but I disagree.
I am at the theatre to sell memberships and subscriptions. Last night I also attempted to sell raffle tickets. We are raffling four tickets for our next show. I am, unfortunately, the opposite of a salesperson. I think I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: I smile, I tell the people what we’re offering, I tell them the price. They say, “No! In fact, you should pay me five bucks for standing here listening to you!”
OK, that’s not really true. People are very polite, and some of them did buy the tickets.
It’s really not that bad of a gig. I don’t know why my wrist is anywhere near my forehead over it, unless it’s that I have nothing to wear. Or that I would really rather be home in sweats, crocheting and watching crime shows on a Sunday. Or that right now it is hanging over my head: I have to be there in two hours. I have to shower. I have to get my stuff together. I ought to be taking care of a few more chores before I go… Oh yes, the wrist is on the forehead.
Well, it’s yet another post for the sake of posting something. I’m not even apologizing for them any more. Oh, well, maybe once more: I’m sorry to post lame again. I’ll try again tomorrow.