stereotypical single woman

We are completely worn out over here. At least I am, and Marty is more than happy to commiserate with me. Well, that and he’s just a lazy cat that’s huge fan of the nap - anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

If nothing else this past week has oh-so-abruptly reminded me that I am no longer in my 20’s. Unlike my first grad school experience I can no longer get up after sleeping three hours, go to my own classes in the morning, teach an undergrad course in the afternoon, successfully make it through a couple of fittings without losing my cool when an actor throws a temper tantrum about wearing something the designer has had me working on for four days, and at the end of the day still have the fine motor skills needed to operate an industrial sewing machine. I am now 30 and my stamina just isn’t what it used to be. Saturday I was so tired that I had to go home and take a nap after class but before going grocery shopping because there is no way I should have been driving.

In fact I was so tired at 10 a.m. Saturday morning that my mind was playing tricks on me. Very cruel, very dirty tricks. I was sitting there, in the dark, at the back of the classroom, trying not to fall asleep while half paying attention to a Powerpoint presentation on computer ethics in the workplace and simultaneously checking my email (please don’t point out the irony) when, out of the corner of my eye I see something long and lavender on the floor next to my bookbag. Something that looks very familiar. In fact, something that looks exactly like one of my vibrators. In the time it takes to blink my sleep deprived brain has not only completely freaked out but formulated multiple hypotheses on exactly how my vibrator got into my book bag in the first place, why it jumped out onto the computer lab floor, how long it had been there, and what they chances are that he brought some of his buddies from the nightstand drawer with him on this little field trip.

Obviously I had to pick it up before anyone else saw it. I really don’t want to be forever known as the girl that gets her kicks by bringing vibrators to class. It doesn’t matter that I don’t consciously remember putting it in my bookbag, because no one is going to care about that little fact when they’re passing the story on. First I quick check my bag to make sure there weren’t any more stowaways. Thankfully I realize that this must of been a solo mission for the little bastard, and then nonchalantly, trying not to bring any attention to myself, I stretch my foot over and nudge it closer so I can pick it up.

Trust me, you can not even begin to imagine my relief when, as the potentially offending object rolled toward me, I saw the word “HI-LITER” stamped on the side.