Monday is oats and coffee, then 32 miles to downtown DC. With the double-breasted pinstripe and the black duffel bag full of gym clothes I look like Evil Santa.
Dry cleaners by the White House don't take laundry by the pound, WTF. The fact that I seem to be the only one on the subway hauling dirty gym clothes home induces paranoia that everyone else has a coping skill for gym clothes that seems too obvious to bother explaining to me.
I'm in a cafeteria rhythm of fruit for breakfast and raw veggies and gravy for lunch. I call it a rhythm because it isn't a rut until I hate it.
I had my morning fruit a half hour ago. It wasn't as much fun to eat as a croissant or sausage, but a half an hour later I don't care.
This Friday is the first time since the early 1990s that I pay bills with no child support payment due. Cue the midlife crisis.
Great, now I have the song "Midlife Crisis" by Faith No More stuck in my head.