So apparently this blog is now primarily a chronicle of all the ridiculous ways in which I hurt myself. In my latest triumph, today I burned my face on my Lean Cuisine. Not my tongue. Not the roof of my mouth. Not even my lips. Nope, my face. Yay, me.
Also of note? I'm ate a damn Lean Cuisine. So much for my Healthy Eating, No Chemicals and Such new leaf turning. Truth be told, I do still think I'm eating a bit better than I was six months ago (or the 358 months prior), but as with so many things in life, it ebbs and flows, I guess. This evening, for example, I made linguine alfredo with fake crab meat. I cut up and tossed in a few cherry tomatoes for color and the illusion of nutritional merit, but I'm not fooling even myself with that. Perhaps if I had eaten only the portion I originally dished out for my dinner, I might be able to cut myself some slack, but since I also went back for the portion I had intended to save for lunch tomorrow, I really should just accept the fact that there's a very good reason several of my summer skirts and pants don't fit. Sigh. Moving on.
I hope everyone had a lovely weekend. Summer officially arrived in Minnesota last Thursday, and I say that not just because that was the night I saw a bunch of spandex-clad hippies doing a Solstice dance along the banks of the Mississippi, but because it was the first day that I was officially too damn hot in jeans and decided it was officially skirt weather. (Apparently I am all about being "official" this evening. Perhaps I should consider a thesaurus.) And if the suddenly summer-like weather wasn't enough to point out that summer is, in fact, well in progress, I went to my first loud, overcrowded, outdoor event of the year on Saturday, which means I also had my first corn dog of the season. Yay for small milestones and pleasures.
On my way to purchase said corn dog, I wedged my way through the line of people waiting to purchase beer tickets (damn you, ticket currency system--scourge of the outdoor concert event), and I found myself face to face directly in front of the guy I went on eight dates with last year, before deciding that if I would rather spend a Saturday night drinking alone in my yoga pants while hooking up computer peripherals than hanging out with him, then surely he was not the man for me. Seriously: EIGHT THOUSAND PEOPLE at Rock the Garden and I end up not just ten feet away and in view of but directly face to face with a former almost-boyfriend? This city is officially shrinking. (And there I go again. No idea where all this resolute "official"-ing is coming from tonight.)
That said, it really wasn't all that particularly awkward an encounter. I think we were both too surprised to run into each other to even remember much of what we said (beyond "Hi; how are you? Good; how are YOU?") I have to keep reminding myself that I ended things with that guy for a reason, though, because since Saturday, I've been remembering how completely perfect for me on paper he was. Unfortunately, we don't live in an "on paper" world. He may have been a member of MPR with season tickets to the Guthrie. He may have been so tall that I could wear my very highest boots and still look up at him. He may have been driven and financially sound and also the perfect mix of hip Uptowner and down-to-earth, roots-in-a-small-town guy. But I could not have a conversation with the man that didn't feel like mere small talk. There was a reason I called things off, aside from my formulaic romantic comedy-esque fear of commitment. Or so I keep telling myself, anyway.
And on that note, how was YOUR weekend? Do tell.