So, I didn’t even realize it’s been…….forever (7 days?….maybe?…I really have no idea) since I actually posted something.
I KNOW. You’re waiting with baited bated (thanks, bob. Obviously, I’m word-challenged) breath to see if I was absent because I was busy hunting down and slaying a three-headed dragon or captured a pigeon-toed manasaurus.
Well, maybe I did.
Or maybe I didn’t.
What does this tell you?
A: It’s super ridiculously windy
B: I have an unhealthy obsession with chunked pineapple in plastic containers
C: My ability to match clothes is severly lacking
D: All of the above
(personally, if I were taking this photo quiz, I’d go with D)
[[[reader break for momentary flashback to school test-taking freak out]]]
Anyhow, everything kind of went downhill on Monday. Literally. Actually, it got downright bloody. But more on that later. It’s part of your game.
And after Catastrophic Monday (that’s what I’m calling it, now, because I think I’m scarred for life. Also, literally), I had to be all work-face serious because we had a team of re-accreditation people on campus for half the week, deciding whether or not to give *the commissioners* aka, the people who grant accreditation’s, the all clear. And when I say “all clear” I mean that the team of people, scrutinizing everything down to the number of fire extinguishers, are pretty sure the school actually follows the rules and will *suggest* that the *commissioners* grant us the accreditation.
And an accreditation is otherwise known as a few letters strung together meaning you’re part of a larger whole AND pay big dollars to be a part of said super neat club JUST so more people will be all, “they are SO accredited. I’m going to THAT. ONE.”
Whatever, people. It’s really not THAT. AWESOME.
The school, I mean.
Funny thing about the entire week of kissing ass is….we’re jumping said accreditors ship and hopping on board with another one in a few months.
Which means we’ll have to do the whole pirouetting dance and make nicey-nice AGAIN.
Oh, did I mention they decided to grant us the re-accreditation? Yah, they might or might not have been on an illegal substance that was floated in their Friday morning coffee when coming to this decision.
To all of this hullabaloo bullshit I say: (obviously, what I’m trying to display is unrelenting rage that I’m giving asshat work the silent treatment)
So, let’s instead get to the bloody part (also known as my current knee cap situation), cause that’s really what’s important here.
Now…wait…you know, this picture makes me look like a bow-legged ostrich (minus the super skinny stick legs. I will never have stick legs. The why to that is coming). I don’t really think I *am* bow-legged but…yah, back to my original word plan: there is SO an entire, embarrassing story behind what happened to my knees.
And I’m SO going to tell you.
Just…..not yet.
Why? Well, how often does an adult….a GROWN ASS PERSON…manage to do the kind of damage to their knees that is really only appropriate for a five year old?
Exactly.
This is why your guessing is involved. Because really, WHO DOES THIS after the age of seven?
Suffice it to say that I DID go get X-rays to make sure I didn’t break my knee caps. The good news? I didn’t. The other news? I have BIG ASS BONES (and BIG ASS BONES means no ostrich stick-like legs).
When the doctor brought in the x-ray film and put it up on that white board thing and turned on the bright lights, I was all, “Um. No. Those are probably for the 6’7 dude down the hall or maybe a small horse…but those most certainly are not MINE.”
They were.
Also, another unfortunate side effect of my injury: I had to wear dresses to work all week.
This doesn’t sound breaking news, because I love dresses like an albino loves a tan…but the thing is, I don’t *DO* dresses at work. EVER.
I happen to have legs that go on for miles….as in, my femur is almost two feet long, and that’s just the length going on above my knee, so a dress is pretty much a bad decision whenever work is involved.
The last time I made the mistake of wearing a dress to work, our lovely population of immature students, who, by the way, bitch and moan DAILY about being “treated like an adult,” cat called me down the hallway and were all, “daaaaaaaaaaamn…did you SEE THAT?” That being my legs. Or me in a dress. Or both.
Annnnnnnnnnd it happened again this past week.
Assholes.
I think I had something else to say…but I got distracted and lost it somewhere with the assholes.
Also? I would appreciate lots of bonus points for Tim and me, running 13 miles this morning. More accurately, getting our tired asses out the door at 4:30AM THIS MORNING…with temps at 80 degrees, and with the humidity, the weather thing said: “feels like 86.”
AT FOUR-THIRTY IN THE MORNING.
Atlanta sucks hot, sweaty balls.
(Yah. I just got the mental picture, too. Excuse me while I go wash my mouth out with soap…and maybe some bleach or any other kind of readily available sweaty ball-disinfectant)
Running 13 miles with knees that look that hurty is commendable. You have my permission to put up your feet and gives those ouchy knees a break for the rest of the day.
No kidding! I can’t believe you ran with that. Ouch!
Havng repeatedlyread the pauper / popper admonition at the top of your page, I was taken aback when I had barely read the the first few lines and saw, ” … with baited breath ..”
Shame. The cat ate cheese and blew down the mouse hole with baited breath. The mice, familiar with the trick, waited with bated breath for the cat to tire and go away.
Now I’ll go and read the rest of today’s blogpost ….
did the same thing – skinned knees while running when I was 27 – EMBARASSING – BUT the ones who were laughing the most were the ones who could have used a little physical fitness the most – you wear those skinned knees as a badge of honor. And as far as wearing a dress – does wonders for your self esteem especially if you are tall. Wear a dress – show off those knees and hold your head high – afterall YOU got up at 4:30am to run – they didn’t …
Bob: I just dedicated an entire post to you….
tj: touché.