Looking back, yesterday was one of those days where I was so tired that I grew increasingly upset about the liturgy debacle as the day went on. It kept eating at my mind all day. By the time Mike got home (a little after 7:00), I was a wreck. I spent about 30 minutes crying into his shirt before he convinced me that we really had to cook dinner or he would starve to death. He was grilling hamburgers, and I was in charge of fixing (heh, little southern-ism for you) the squash. “Do you want it roasted or fried?” I asked him. “Fried,” he said. “Fried food is more comforting.” Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with the Best. Husband. Ever.
He even let me watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Two episodes of it! Even though it always makes me cry! He has a high crying tolerance, apparently. To be completely accurate, I really watched one-and-a-half episodes, because I fell asleep on the floor sometime during the second episode. This morning I woke up in bed when my alarm went off at 6:30 and said, “How did I get here?” (Which, if you think about it, is never a good question to have to ask when you wake up in the morning.) Mike said that he tried to get me up, but that I was dead to the world, so he had to carry me. It sounds as if he had some difficulty maneuvering, though, because he said that while he was trying to get me through the door, my feet hit the light switch and left him standing in complete darkness. (Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with Mike and Kari: the sitcom!) He had to put me down, and he finally was able to get me to walk to bed. Or so he says. I don’t remember any of that.
I am still struggling with feeling mortified. I suppose I will either be completely over it or mortified for life after Wednesday, because that’s when we’re hanging out with some people from church. If I get a bad vibe from them about it, I may go into hiding. In Siberia. (Or, you know, under my bed. I’m always looking for the mature way to deal with my problems.)