If I'd woken up with a hangover, I'd be prompted to complain, but the aches and pangs that made walking to lunch a pleasant (yet painful) process are trophies again.
Especially the swelling purpleness of my middle knuckles (on both hands) that are deforming my fingers from joint to joint. Those'uns, were courtesy of cf and thoroughly appreciated.
Granted, my bruises got a head start courtesy of the roiling masses of nineteen and twenty-year-old strapping young lads on the ski team, and my shins are screaming from a combination of Saturday's drunken wipeout (first wipeout of the season and I did it Warren Miller style, summersaulting bakwards down a "triple diamond" slope and landing on my feet to continue dizzily on) and hanging off the Q92 winnebago during the St-Patty's day parade.
k, my thoughts are a mess, my sleep factor is nonexistant, and my debugging today so far has involved setting a hundred breakpoints to colour up my new graphical debugger.
I've even forgotten to wish everyone a happy "I'm officially of Celtic descent for the weekend" day.
I meant to dye my hair a glowing coppery, but forgot that underneath the hot, hot pink my natural colour is closer to a dirty blonde. With the lightener included in the "strawberry blonde" box, I'm a blonde again. A bright, happy, cute-as-fucking-hell blonde.
But I'm carrying it well, and until the merry Newfoundlanders at Claddagh's turned from taking photographs of kisses on my cheeks to lickin' my sparkles off, I was enjoying the way the brightness of my locks lit up a room.
And next year, I'll know not to wear Mardi-Gras beads wound about my torso simply because of their brilliant shade of green, so that when I am hanging off the largest class 5 vehicle that I have ever seen, there won't be a man on every corner screaming for me to show my breasts.
Not that it matters. Tia marched with me and at the end of the hour or so (or was it more) of cavorting and singing and little-green-umbrella twirling she turned to me and thanked me for the glee. Talk about reheatin' the several ounces of fine, fine single malt whisky that had already been warming my stomach.
And Steven stopped by before finding his float and I found a spot on his cheek to draw one of the thousand shamrocks I'd pencilled in that day, and every celebrity for a couple of mile radius brought their daughters by for a whiff of my sparkle collection and between green silk scarves and green sparkles and green beads and green beer, I'm ready for the brilliant emeralds of spring to sweep into my life again.
And I'd better get back to work, but first...
Happy St-Patty's, happy spring, happy everything.
And cf, it was very good to see you. In a couple of weeks, I promise that I will be doing it often.
~