Yep

Everyone has those days. The kind of day that leaves you tired beyond all reason.

I had worked at the house we are soon moving into, and I discovered a job I hate worse than painting ceilings, which has reigned supreme as my most dreaded job for years. Sanding ceilings. It. Is. The. Worst. Unfortunately the house which will soon be our home is covered in the dreaded ceiling substance known as "popcorn." It's that ugly, bumpy stuff people used to love to spread across the ceiling and HGTV has declared that it will devalue your house, haunt your guests, burn your eyes, and frighten small children. Clearly it must go.

So, after my dear dad and loving son scraped most of the bumps away, I got onto a ladder and sanded that surface until not a bump or gouge remained. When one is sanding a ceiling's entire surface, many things happen. One is that dust has no place to fall but into your eyes. This is not only painful, but inconvenient when trying to see. Another thing that happens is that you breathe dust, eat dust, and become so plastered in white dust that you basically turn yourself into a piece of chalk. And then, when the job is finished, you realize that you may never again be able to move your arms.

So, I drove myself home, showered for an eternity, and put on the softest clothes I could find. And also the clothes that were closest to me, thereby eliminating any need for arm movement. I noticed it had begun to snow and the temperature had plummeted, and I congratulated myself on the warm, cozy evening ahead of me. Then my son told me he needed a ride to a friends house.

A more responsible citizen might have sucked it up and changed into appropriate public attire. But I had spent the day breathing dust. I just took myself clad in my husband's XL sweatshirt, sweatpants (cuz I love them and don't care who knows), pink and black striped fuzzy socks (Again - love them), and fuzzy slippers into the car and sweetly drove my son, who I adore.

When I pulled into the driveway it hit me that I would have to walk to the front door and discuss play date details with, likely, a responsible mother who probably doesn't wear fuzzy clothing when speaking to other parents. So, I decided that if  kept my conversation brief enough she might not see me. I spoke lightening quick and made my get away.

Unfortunately my get away included stairs. Five of them. In fuzzy slippers. In a snowstorm.

My feet left the earth, and my lower back met each step as I bounced ungracefully down the steps and landed in a snow drift. Apparently the bouncing was quite violent because my warm, fuzzy slippers were propelled into the driveway, and my keys landed in the bushes. The beet color of the bruise I have makes me believe that I might expect full recovery about this time next year.

But I still love my fuzzy clothes.