What is it about my parents that just brings out the worst in me? Forty-eight hours after the welcome home hugs and kisses, and I find myself slamming doors in pure aggravation. Slamming doors?! What’s that about?! I haven’t slammed a door since…..since….since I was sixteen!
My father told me four times last night before I went out that I “really needed a jacket”. My mother organized everything in my room when I turned my back for five minutes. I wonder who they think has been cleaning my room and telling me to put a jacket on for the last six years? Silly stuff. All I can really do is laugh about it, understand that they do only have the best of intentions and practice some serious patience. And I can’t give them all the credit! Being in this house magically takes years off my maturity. I mean slamming doors?! *drops head in hands in shame* I LOVE my parents and coming home….but thank God it’s only a week. It’s not that I can’t handle them….it’s that I can’t handle myself…or at least the 16 year old brat I used to be. Okay. I’m done with the rant. I’ve promised myself to replace door slamming with silent smiles of understanding….and to resist all urges to steal keys and crawl out basement windows after curfew.
I ran Portland’s “Shamrock Race” this morning. Only an 8k run, but I ran it in 43 minutes flat…which averages to about 8 1/2 minute miles — which is an ENORMOUS improvement from my half-marathon time. *pats self on back*
8 Days and Counting…
*tick, tick, tick*