Yesterday? Let's not even talk about yesterday. During the day, that is.
In fact, let's not even talk about last night, for the most part.
Crappy. Just a crappy, endless, mind-numbingly frustrating friggin' day, and not just for me, either. There's something about this week of the year in general, I think.
The single bright spot in the entire 24 hours that was yesterday, for me, was when Stephen told me to get in the car, we're going for ice cream. Screw the low-carb diet. Screw the "homework" I had to bring home--we're going.
We went to Sully's, a family-owned ice-cream stand right next to the high school I graduated from. Teen jocks, mostly female, work the stand, dishing out frappes, sundaes, cones, in a never-changing attire of faded t-shirts, gym shorts, sloppy ponytails, and splatters of mint chip and mocha up to their elbows. Their tip cups overflow with change.
In front of us there was a gaggle of kids from the local Little League, in dirty sliding pants, squinting around freckles, buck-toothed, redheaded, farmer-tanned, and utterly charming. They wore the caps of different major league teams as their own teams' caps--the only time you'll ever see an eight-year-old from the Boston area sporting the Milwaukee Brewers logo, to be sure.
I ordered a small chocolate ice cream cone. Before you go thinking I showed restraint, if I'd really wanted a small ice cream cone, I would've ordered a kiddie size from this place. "Small" means three scoops.
I ate a "Jumbo" cone there once.
I was a kid, and it was after a soccer game, and our coach took us out after we won to buy us ice cream. I ate what seemed like a gallon of Cookie Dough ice cream perched on a sugar cone, and while I didn't actually barf, I also didn't eat much of anything else till the next afternoon.
Steve got a coffee frappe, and we followed Sully's tradition by retiring to the car to eat the first part of the cone, enough so you could drive with the remainder. We rolled the windows down and put on the ball game.
And there it was: the moment I'd been pining for all winter. Sully's on a warm summer night, windows down, radio on, Joe Castiglione calling the Red Sox' balls, strikes and outs. Chocolate ice cream on my tongue.
Yesterday, I actually asked myself out loud at one point during the afternoon commute, "Can this day actually get worse?!?!"
But for just those few minutes last night, I don't think it could've gotten much better.