Long Days

I returned home from work this evening to find my mother in a fit of cleaning and shower-related woes. I walked in the door, not bothering to take off my boots, because after a fifteen hour shift?

I really didn't feel like expending the energy to lean down, unlace, and remove boots from my feet. Sometimes I'm amazed that I have the energy to turn off and get out of my car once I get home. I've often contemplated sleeping right there in the driver's seat of my Little Chevy.

My mother immediately began to bemoan her day, which involved men, chain saws, our bathroom, and the state of our non-functional shower stall.

And then she stopped.

And she said:

"You're bleeding."

And I said:

"Yes."

And she said:

"Then I guess I can't really complain about my day?"

And I said:

"Nope. Unless you're bleeding profusely from the face, you can't complain about your day."

And then I cracked open a nice, cold beer, threw on some jogging pants, and retired to the comfort of my computer.