It's all baseball's fault. Stupid playoffs.
Baseball is an agonizingly long season. My boyfriend, the Boy, leaves for spring training in February. If his team sucks, he is done by early October. Unfortunately, his team is pretty ok. Which means that - depending on how far they go into the postseason - I don't get the Boy back until late October/early November.
This year they made it to the playoffs. So my October has been a whirlwind of travel and baseball games. I think I beat my own record this year with 5 games on two coasts in one span of 6 days. Combine that with work and single-parenting and now the cold from hell and I think I'm officially brain dead.
My October has had the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I have enjoyed the obnoxious but mostly friendly fans of my team and the obnoxious but mostly angry fans of the visiting team (which is - mostly - how it should be). I have been hugged and high-fived by some strangers and yelled at and flipped off by others. I have had to explain new interesting words to the Princess.
I have flown across country in the middle of the night to get to the next game. I have driven endless miles back and forth to the stadium. I stayed up late and got up early. Ate erratically, drank occasionally.
I had a blast.
I am officially exhausted.
But the Boy will be home soon. And we can be exhausted together.
And since I'm tired and creatively brain-dead and have nothing really constructive to say at the moment anyway, I leave you with a picture I took this summer during my trip to LA. It has absolutely positively nothing to do with baseball.
I give you George, my tranny Lego bodyguard, at the Hollywood monument to his hero.
George - overcome with bliss