3 cups of coffee, 2 (fairly painful) bouts of self-kicking, and 1 “babe-I-love-you-but-don’t-you-dare-send-another-message-after-that-craziness!” best friend phone call later, I succumbed to the doldrums, threw on my uniform, and went to work vowing I would forget the posting ever passed through my phone. In addition, I firmly added to my inner monologue that I would not, absolutely not, be sad to have destroyed my only chance ever to have a grand adventure.
Of course I allowed no concession to my less hateful, logical brain. It was pathetically trying to remind me that adventures had indeed been, and would surely again be a part of my life, despite my desperate early morning plea. I’m a woman after all, I don’t always have time for sensibility especially when in matters of great tragedy.
So my day passed as well as could be hoped for, with minor work emergencies cropping up like tribbles throughout the day, providing me with blessedly little time to dwell on either my island-life dreams or my own stupidity. Evening grudgingly obliged to relieve me of my boss and therefore my workday at last.
Exhausted, humbled, and resolved to escape into a great book, a glass of wine, and not checking my email, I sighed as I closed my door on the world. Despite my returned self-deprecating thoughts, I was glad to be home in the quiet having survived another day at my wretched, useless job listening to my wretched, useless boss.
Shedding clothes on my way from the front door to the kitchen (the joys of living alone, I hate wearing my uniform one second longer than necessary), I began to relax at last. Red wine in hand, I made my way to my couch… via the computer desk. I couldn’t help myself. I just couldn’t.
I try not to talk to myself too often. I don’t have any pets, so I can’t use that as an excuse for talking out loud in an empty apartment, so I restrain from outer monologues for the most part. But I couldn’t help that right at that moment, just as I couldn’t help checking my email.
“You won’t have a response.” I repeated to my walls, surely gathering stories of their own about the crazy resident in apartment #6. “It was an absurd listing anyway. Eight million people probably responded and all of them sounded less crazy than you. It’s probably not even real. If it was real, you definitely disqualified yourself. But it’s not real. So you won’t get a response. And that’s best because he’s probably psycho and the trip would be a terrible idea anyway. Terrible. Absurd. Worst idea ever. Not even worth consid-OH HOLY CHEESITS!”
He responded! He actually responded!
I spilled my wine.