I awoke on Sunday morning at 7:07, and couldn’t get back to sleep. I thought, this would probably be a good time to start walking regularly again. Maybe even get a run in there. Then, I remembered I hate running.
Tinder’s making me think crazy things.
Like I’m a morning person that runs. For fun (and health, too). Gross. I’ve chatted with a few decent dudes all of whom don’t sleep, can’t sleep, or sleep like vampires. Evidently, the only decent guys in my age range that are actually single on Tinder have a million jobs, or weird jobs, or have no life outside of their jobs. So, here they are: up at 7 am on a Sunday, being all chatty, and sweet, and witty, and nice.
And something happens during that moment when I’m trying to pull the right thing to say out of a foggy dreamy mess. I start thinking that there’s a possibility I might actually have to meet one of these guys. And then I think about my last manicure, my last pedicure, the last time I got on a treadmill. Yesterday, I was taking photos of underwear for the cover of “Forty-Eight Hours of Bliss”. Today, I’m thinking that I have absolutely no cute underwear in my current size. Forget the underwear, I don’t have date clothes in my size. I must remedy this. This is crucial!
And then, I went back to sleep. Enough not being myself.