fucking holidays!

If one more person asks me for a peppermint mocha, I might actually lose my mind. Working at a coffee shop in Manhattan during the holidays is a specific kind of torture that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. The tourists are everywhere, and they are entirely devoid of spatial awareness. I hadn’t an idea at all that pulling espresso shots could be an extreme sport, but here we are. I am exhausted down to my bones. My arthritis is a constant, low-level hum of pain in my hands, and I’m relying on Uber way more than I can afford just to get home without collapsing. On the bright side, Jon has been incredibly helpful with the kids this week. He took the three boys to see his family upstate, giving me a few days of actual, uninterrupted silence in the apartment. I spent last night watching Seventh Heaven—ironically, of course—and eating takeout. It’s so strange being alone in this space. I miss the noise when it’s gone, but I am relishing the ability to just exist without being needed by anyone for a few days.