I honestly don’t know which of these is the most painful:

• Sitting through a meeting rehashing something that you thought was agreed to months ago and then finding out, an hour into the meeting, that the other person didn’t understand the difference between “A” and “B”, and so now DOESN’T agree to anything. At all.
• Slamming your hand in the car door.
• Running out of vodka.
• An hour-long workout after taking two months off.

Can you guess which one of those four things I HAVEN’T faced today. No, seriously, y’all. There’s four very painful things up there. Guess which one hasn’t happened!

{{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}} {{waiting}}

Okay! Who guessed that the Hotfessional has NOT slammed her hand in a car door?

ding ding ding ding ding!

You win.

Everything else? Yes.

Fuck a duck y’all.

I’ve been working with a team made up of process experts (kill.me.now.) since March. I “own” a document that covers this process from beginning to end - meaning I have to add/delete/change/spindle/mutilate the flowchart (remember those?) whenever someone from the team figures out that “X won’t work” or “Z can’t happen.”

This process is supposed to be completed/frozen/communicated/blessed/approved on Friday. I’ve spent the last three business days not reading blogs/not writing blogs/not twittering/not IM’ing/not spying on my neighbors, but working my ass off to get this thing finished. And I was almost there. I was soooooo close. I was moaning saying, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t stop!”

And then, today, someone essentially said, “Five doesn’t equal five. Five really equals ten.” (Kinda like running out of batteries midstream having your three year old catch you in the act.)

And the rest of us were all, “Huh? But five DOES equal five. Five doesn’t equal ten. Five equaled five in April. And in May, and in June. What’s so fuckin’ different about July? Huh?”

So now, I have to change that mutha-effin’ document again - or jump out the window.

Which won’t kill me because I’m only on the second floor. That is, if I could open the window with the pain in my arms from the forty-twelve curls I did. Or if I could raise my leg high enough to get out onto the ledge after the seventy-eleven squats and lunges.

I can barely squat down to sit on the freakin’ toilet to, ehem, relieve myself. Which means I can’t drink beer or wine, because they make me have to pee. Every 10 minutes.

And I’m outta vodka.

—- Sigh. —-