Today was the first day in probably my entire full-time employment at Wayland that I have gone to work without eating breakfast. I finally forced myself out from under my sheets at 7:25 this morning and decided that I would spend my short, precious time before work showering. I knew I still had a banana in my desk drawer I had meant to eat yesterday before realizing that we had an all-day office food fest. I figured I’d just bring my jar of Naturally More and make a light meal of it.
Only I forgot the peanut butter so basically I had an early morning snack. Around 10, I marched my dreary, sleep-deprived hiney over to the campus bookstore and bought this breakfast of champions.
And why do I subject myself to such things? Because I got three hours of sleep last night. And not restful sleep either. I was up every so often paranoid that perhaps the alarm didn’t get set correctly or something was going to prevent it from waking me at 6:45 and I would oversleep (Edgar is out of town until this afternoon, and I have no idea how to set his alarm clock. It still chimes its first alarm at 4:30 AM which he had set for himself for Monday morning). And why did I stay up until such ungodly hours? Reading. I was deeply engrossed into the sweeping saga that is the Pioneer Woman’s courtship with the Marlboro Man. I mean, it was like I was reading my life with Edgar on someone else’s blog, only in more creative turns of phrase, more hiney tingles, and more detail than I, even in my detail-orientedness and painstakingly accurate memory, could ever muster. You see, I’m a countrified city girl, and Edgar’s a backwoods hick. Okay that’s extreme. I was born and rasied in the suburbs of Fort Worth, which isn’t exactly known for its urban nightlife or high-class Metropolian flair (though it’s certainly there, but your bartender, waiter, ticketmaster, doorman, or bouncer just might have a Texas twang and have Smith & Wesson tucked beneath his shirt). Edgar was raised in a small town in West Texas and grew up working on cars and listening to classical music and his dad telling dirty limericks. We met at Wayland where he was an arrogant, trumpet-playing rugby jock and I was an overachieving 17-year-old art student who had already fallen in love with the big West Texas skies. Somewhere along the lines, he quit being a butt and his country boy respectfulness, sensibility, and true masculinity shone through. And of course I couldn’t help but notice the chiseled back earned from years working with pistons and V8s and whatever else it is he did in that shop. Did I say that out loud?
I mean, who wouldn’t love this?!
I love a man in flannel.
So back to the point. I remembered why I love reading so much about the same time I remembered why I don’t read. Somewhere along the lines, I don’t do something else I’m supposed to be doing instead. So I end up eating having Diet Dr Pepper and an oversized glorified candy bar for breakfast. So learn from me, folks. Go find yourself a country boy and get some honest-to-goodness sleep. If he doesn’t set the alarm for 4 AM that is.
Here. It’s my lunch. I got creative and threw it on a bed of broccoli. If I had the time to bother with proofing yeast, kneading, and cleaning up the floury snow, I’d stuff it with some spinach in a pita pocket and figure out some kind of sauce to put in it. But who am I kidding?
Good riddance, leftovers. I mean, you were tasty and all, but no new food makes for a less than interesting food blog.