Cranky pants

Things have been going pretty well of late. My foot is on the road to recovery, and I have resumed some of my exercise classes. Summer is near, etc. etc.

Even in the face of “going pretty well of late,” sometimes I accidentally put on my cranky pants. I don’t even realize I’m wearing them. Perhaps some older ladies at the gym are sitting on a bench right next to the locker where I’ve stashed my stuff. They’re fully dressed in their street clothes, but they’re just chatting, oblivious to my needing to scooch around them in a cramped space to get to my towel. When I return from the shower and see that they’re still there, I let out one of those exasperated, “what-ever” sigh/snorts. Even though they don’t actually hear this, they do leave shortly thereafter.

Or maybe I’m recounting a challenging work situation in an instant message window, and I find myself wanting to use more profanity than is my usual. I don’t catch on at this point, because I’m not actually mad at anyone. There are some people who are sort of mad at me, but even this doesn’t really bother me, because what they’re mad about is something over which I didn’t have a whole lot of control.

Could be that I’m pulling into the parking lot at my lunch spot and become inordinately annoyed with people who creep along, waiting for someone else to vacate a spot, even though there are plenty of other spaces.

That was the moment of realization for me today, when I uttered something derogatory and profane about a faceless driver in front of me, for a pretty insignificant offense.

Oh, shit, I’m wearing my cranky pants today!

Nothing an 84-gram organic orange dark chocolate bar won’t fix. That’s a single serving, right? 84 grams?

Published by Kari Neumeyer

Writer, editor, dog mom, ovarian cancer survivor

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