The worst week ever started with a bad day last Tuesday, which became progressively worse when another driver backed into me in the drive-through of a fast food restaurant on Friday, damaging the hood of my car. And then, the piece de resistance: some stomach bug had me hovering over the porcelain throne for the better part of Saturday, weak as a kitten on Sunday, and finally feeling halfway back to normal (if you don’t count the headache and intermittent nausea) on Monday.
They say bad things happen in threes, right? Welp, I think I’m done for the next few months at least.
The one good thing that came out of the last few days is realizing, once again, how much I still depend on my mother. Even at thirty-something, she’s still the first person I’ll call–when bad, or good, things happen. Even though we are thousands of miles apart, and separated by three to four hours worth of time zones, I know she’ll be there for me. Like during that awkward moment when I’m cocooned in my blankets with a case of the chills, just knowing she’s on the other end of a phone call makes me feel better. I mean, what kind of bizarre power is that?
Here’s to you, Ma. Love you lots.
#BFFsForever. And I don’t care who knows it.