I’m ridiculously pleased I went ahead and ran Friday after work, because I woke up this morning short on sleep and with barely enough energy to scrub my bathroom semi-clean one last time. If I’d had some Ajax, that bathroom would be polished, but many people don’t seem to think to buy the hard stuff, it seems.
At any rate, I was up at 06:30. I cleaned, I ate, I threw away tons of stuff I couldn’t take home with me and didn’t have time to properly dispose of–I’d replaced my wardrobe of pants about a month ago, and hadn’t made time or arrangements to take the old clothes to Goodwill. I had a lot of food that had to go and that I didn’t have time to eat. All the Tupperware I’d bought, the cup I’d used, my cheap Rubbermaid-Nalgene, all of it had to be trashed so that I could travel home in one suitcase and one backpack.
Luke came to pick me up early enough to get to help me move my mattress back upstairs. After a bit of deliberation (which had been going on for the past week), we decided to eat lunch (my treat, for the ride to the airport) at Golden Corral.
Why my brain didn’t make the automatic connection between “country Terre Haute” and “two oppositely gendered, differently raced people eating a meal together” is a tribute to my five years of Charlotte life, quite frankly. We got odd looks from the cashier (where I paid and I carried the tray) and from people sitting around us (who I faced), and the waitress paid complete attention to Luke while waiting about 10 minutes to refill my empty glass of water (after jumping on his nearly before he’d finished it). Apparently, Luke was the only one at our table of two capable of wanting more rolls or more beverage or any assistance at all. Heffa. Don’t think I didn’t leave a damn comment card, either. With her name all over it.
I’m getting sick of people trying to hand Luke the change or the receipt when I pay at restaurants. What in the fuck is that? If I hand the money to the cashier, the transaction should be considered between me and the cashier, not the cashier and whatever male friend I’m with.
Following my ridiculously expensive meal of mashed potatoes, macaroni, and rolls, we headed to Indy. Luke’s a radio channel-flicker like I am, so we listened to Terre Haute’s four good channels before they went out, then cycled through Indy’s stations once we got in range. We stopped long enough to catch some Tracy Chapman, a little Korn and Perfect Circle, and even a No Doubt pop song before we hit the country channels. Luke even danced to some mediocre rap song, which was highly entertaining. This isn’t the first time someone driving me to the airport has decided to play rap music for my [dubious] entertainment value and proceeded to dance [horribly] to it.
And not to pick on Luke (because he didn’t do too badly, and it was entertaining), but a rhythm is a rhythm is a rhythm, yes? How can you have rhythm dancing to country or rock, but have trouble catching it on a rap song, where, if anything, the percussion is more pronounced? Now, I’ll bow out of this by declaring that I have trouble making my body move to any rhythm when I think people are watching. But I can make my body run for 45 minutes at a time, so I still win.
But the ride was fun, even if the air conditioning had to be alternated between leaving me with numb hands and burning Luke out.
I sat in the Indy and Chicago airports and read some of Gabriel García Marquez’s The General in his Labyrinth while oogling the travelling eye candy.
But I am back in Charlotte with no cell phone (it got washed in the washing machine a week ago), nowhere to run other than on a treadmill (unless I drive somewhere), and no phone numbers of people to call (because the cell phone held them all). And I am le tired of travelling, so sleep calls.