That Time I Wasn't Patient.

So G is going to be here in three days. Saturday to be more exact. 4p.m. Pacific Standard Time. 73 Hours. And its not that I haven't seen him in three months. Or that Im really really looking forward to seeing him (and hopefully getting to second base, or you know, much much farther). Its the I'm fucking terrible at waiting for things.

When I get excited about something I get really antsy and fidgety and have a hard time focusing on things. Which, you know, works super good when one works for a living.

Its gotten better with age though. When I was a kid I would run around in figure eights when I was excited. (A.D.D. you say? Don't judge, I say.) Like this one time I remember I was really excited at the pool on account of the ice cream man (to this day I challenge you to find me something more awesome than the Pink Panther Ice Cream bar, and if you do, I'll have its children) and I slipped and fell down a stair and bruised my tail bone. Which I believe to be the most embarrassing bone to injure. Not being one for public displays of pain induced self groping, I hobbled into the womens locker room and, unable to sit, marched around holding my rear. And I didn't even get any ice cream.

Being at least a couple years past running around to express excitement, I am relegated to fidgeting in my office chair and eating what appears to be an endless supply of cookies in the hallway. If G doesn't get here soon I might give the old standby a try. I'll just try to be more careful around stairs.