Is it time to go home yet?

[rivka]

I am apparently the only person in all of Western Civilization who does not have enough vacation time to take today off.

The hallways are dim. The copier is broken, and no one will be here to repair it until January 2. The guy who's coming in as a co-author on our reworking of the biodisparity paper isn't here. The people in the GYN clinics aren't here. My boss is ill and distracted and unlikely to supply me with much of a driving force. My client made it in, but other than that I could just as well have stayed home and spent today in bed.

This evening we're going to the New Year's English Country Dance given by the Greater Washington Folklore Society. New Year's Eve has never been a great holiday for me - it always seems to hammer in the point that I'm not particularly popular on the local level. I suppose that's why I'm entertaining dark thoughts of spending the evening on the sidelines feeling awkward and out of place because no one but Misha or Bill will want to dance with me.

That's a ridiculous way to think, clearly. I didn't have any trouble finding partners at the Playford Ball, and only sat out the dances I wanted to skip. It's just the whole goddamned New Year's mystique, I guess - being sucked in to the media image of perfect parties filled with beautiful people. Damn it, I hate getting drawn in to expectations that don't even make sense for the person I am.

At least I have a little black velvet dress. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to pair it with the swingy flowered velvet coat or the little black sequined jacket saoba gave me. The clasp of the velvet coat always comes undone while I'm dancing, but it does look good.

Comments

[johnpalmer.livejournal.com]

Hey, I was (AM!) working too... and worse, livejournal threw some good, truthful, and complimentary stuff I'd written in response to this into the bit bucket. Worse, when I tried to recall what I'd said in email, *THAT* got screwed up. Mark my words, this will get messed up to. (Maybe I should write something terminally embarassing to myself. Then, *NOTHING* would keep it from showing up.