Unbelievably, rush hour traffic asserted great diplomacy, delivering me to my doorstep no later than 5:30 PM. This is, my dear friends, a very rare and beautiful thing. Thrilled at the new prospects of lethargic self-indulgence now afforded me, I slipped through the apartment, shedding life's accessories in my wake.*
*This includes, but is not limited to: iPhone, keys, security badge, and sweater.
Juggling grape soda, trashy novel, and unlit Parliament like a Cirque alum, I porch-perched and sighed happily at the little patch of sunlight creeping towards my toes. She-Who-Shares-My-Living-Quarters soon paid me a quick visit in the outdoors, letting me know that she would be leaving to run a brief errand. I bid her farewell and returned to blissed-out post-work mecca.
Not long after, a chill crept about the space, and after several yawns and a gratuitous stretch of the back, I attempted to re-enter my home.
To no avail. Space-Mate had locked the door fast, apres our chat. Similarly, the front door turned a deaf ear to my pleadings for entry. Dejected, I returned to my stoop and dedicated myself to completing a book I have yet to take seriously.
Fence took on the role of post-modern sundial. As the light that climbed through its hatchings grew greyer and crept and crept, Agitation descended into the scene. Book quickly ran out of pages and exited. Two hours had now passed, and I feared that Space-Mate was gone for good, ne'er to return until the arrival of Day-Next. LandLord, I soon learned, was visiting family in another state.
I do so love to camp. However, my porch can and will not contain the prostrate form of a gangly female, and the concrete slab floor would offer little respite from the impending night's chill. I urged all 68 inches of self into verticality, and began an epic, stiletto-ed trek down The Way of the Kings.
Walking inspired blistering of the feet. Blistering inspired increased agitation. Increased agitation decreased self-composure. Soon, I was stumbling and fuming down El Camino like a drunken and rejected prom date. I can't say for certain, but I feel sure that I must have been muttering to myself, skirt balled helplessly in my fists. I apologize to unfortunate commuters-home who witnessed this, as it no doubt brought up repressed childhood memories of at least one unsettling episode of The X Files.
Directly betwixt my own domicile and that of Nicholas (Knight in Shining Jaguar), She-Who-Shares-My-Living-Quarters flew past, somehow failing to witness my manic eruption of arms and legs and everything flailable.
Well, friends, I turned around. My blistered feet and my bedraggled soul trudged and trudged. Mourning the loss of my entire evening, an evening which had (at first glance) appeared to be a bastion of lethargic glory, I passed another 30 minutes before trip-grunt-toppling through the door marked "3."
I've never hidden a key outdoors, for fear of masked vigilantes - dashing men with pillage and plunder in their souls, who could daintily pluck said key from its Nook of Secrecy and do all manner of untowardly deeds. My tendencies may, however, have been swayed.
Interpret the following statistics as you will.
Masked Vigilante Count (as of 8/14/08): 0
Impromptu Homelessness Count (as of 8/14/08): More than 0.