I was in my head all day yesterday.
I woke up at 10AM, ate some cereal, grabbed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, and came back upstairs to the bed where I opened up my computer to write, and I didn't move—aside from the requisite bio breaks—for the next eleven hours.
And then I was sick of myself. Sick of writing. Sick of being the gross little troll that didn't move all day. Sick of being in my head.
So I heaved my still-pajama-clad self from the bed and went looking for my husband.
Not watching TV. Not in his office. So I went downstairs. And when I reached the landing I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet. And the smell wasn't right. Chemicals. I walked slowly—a little scared—toward the garage. And as I walked closer, the chemical scent grew stronger.
Oh good grief, I thought, Is he sniffing paint 'cause I ignored him all day?
When I opened the door to the garage what I discovered was much worse than husband getting high.
He was painting his car.