When even the guy at the gas station is disgusted

Last night I was lying around, moping and sighing wistfully, alternating between staring at the ceiling and watching Conan talk about leaving the Tonight Show - which sure as hell put my situation in perspective. I'll never be able to grow a cool-ass leprechaun beard, and no one is handing me 30 million dollars to choose unemployment.

Life just isn't fair.

I have been struggling with the decision to go back to work at the cafe. If you take out the emotional aspect, it's the right thing to do. It's a good job. Good people. It suits me. But as soon as I let my subconscious have it's say, things get much harder. I am not sleeping. I have a hard time sleeping as it is, and with this latest turn of events, I spend hours lying in bed debating and explaining and justifying and trying to find peace with it. It's obnoxious. I feel guilty, and I have no idea why. I feel embarrassed, but can't put my finger on the cause. I feel frustrated to have the ball in my court, after I had so neatly left it for someone else. This was a done deal and a closed chapter, and now it's......not.

At about 10pm, I decided that I needed some ice cream. You know, to help me get my head straight.
Sadly, my freezer did not contain any sweet dairy goodness - unless you count frozen tubes of GoGurt, which I absolutely DO NOT. I was in my pajamas, of course, seeing as how it was both bedtime AND I was in a funk. And because my state of mind was such that getting dressed was simply not an option, I grabbed my purse and went marching out the door with the dogs trailing behind.

I made a beeline for the nearest convenience store, and grabbed a pint of Haagen Dazs - because emotional eating deserves only the best that my Minit Stop has to offer. I bypassed the HoHo's (that was tough) and the ICEEs (even though I really wanted one) and marched right past the Heath bars. Okay, that's a lie, I stopped and picked up a Heath bar, but then I put it back. I wanted to drown my sorrows, not binge and purge. A pint of ice cream topped off with a Heath bar would have left me even more miserable then I already was.

Which was pretty fucking miserable.

I walked up to the counter and put down my pint. The guy behind the register - a manager trainee according to his name tag - grinned and said "Someone looks like they are ready for bed." I looked down at my rumpled pajama pants and my ratty t shirt. "Well, almost." I replied. "I just needed this one last thing." He handed me the pint and wished me a good night and sweet dreams, shaking his head at this woman with dark circles under her eyes and a greasy pony tail, driving around at 10 o'clock in her pajamas buying ice cream and studying the Heath Bars wistfully. I met his gaze with an icy stare, because trust me, I am not the only chick to show up in her pajamas around these parts. The only difference is, I had a bra on, and all of my teeth were present and accounted for. I walked back to the car and climbed in, setting the ice cream carefully in my cup holder.

By the time I got back to the house, Sami was in bed. I climbed in next to him, popped the lid off the cookie dough, and dug in.

I have no regrets.
Not going back to work.
Not going out in my pajamas.
Not going to bed with a pint of ice cream.