February feels like dead week in college. You kind of just put your head down and try to get through it. All regular activities go by the wayside in an attempt to survive. Dinners aren't cooked, exercise certainly isn't happening, and laundry is the only chore that gets done consistently because we sadly have a finite amount of underwear. We're coping with it the best way we can: fresh flowers, burning candles 8 hours a day, and watching a whole bunch of Parks and Rec.
Everyone should marry a Matt Phillips. They make you laugh when all you want to do is pout. They let you buy expensive candles even though you exceeded the "Home/Miscellaneous" section of the budget last week. They have never-ending hope in Georgia Tech athletics despite their horrible track record, which points to a heart filled with a bottomless grace (good news for wives who are prone to forgetting to turn off lights when they leave rooms). They tell you how beautiful you are when you have to wear a uniform of ill-fitting polos in the most un-pale-person-flattering colors for work. They can tell the second you walk in the door if you're in the state of mind to cook a meal, and if not, will suggest somewhere to eat, usually Mexican because they know the way to your heart is through chicken tortilla soup. They hold you and pray for your grandfather when you can't articulate the worry on your heart. They always hold open the car door for you and tell the best bedtime stories when you can't fall asleep, even though they themselves are very, very sleepy. They are patient and kind and unrelentingly cheery in a way that would probably drive you crazy if you weren't a direct beneficiary of all that positive attitude. And all you can do is say thank you and try and make sure there are always bananas and apples in the kitchen for them.
We moved to our neighborhood in October, so we haven't really gotten the chance to go on the after dinner walks we became accustomed to over the summer. I'm itching to wander through Collier Hills and scheme up how to befriend/become the sole heirs to the millionaires who inhabit the homes of my dreams. As much as I love hunkering down in Nessie, I need some fresh air. (Heaven help me if I ever live anywhere actually cold. The melodramatics have already reached threat level midnight. Can you imagine the dire straits we'd be in if we left the deep south?)
Friday the 13th was 2015's best day on record. It was profit-sharing day at work (a day when a percentage of the prior year's profit is distributed amongst all employees), and, all thanks to me, obviously, we had a record payout. I was given a last minute invitation to help work a five-day award trip at an all inclusive resort in Playa del Carmen. Somebody who loves me sent me roses. I set-up for the department's profit sharing party (and pretended I was Pam Beesley), where I won a $50 Best Buy gift card in a drawing and ate a cupcake from the bakery that made our wedding cake. I left work an hour early and went to celebrate Galentine's Day with burgers and cookies and uterus discussion and selfies with some of my favorite ladies. Friday the 13ths are always the luckiest day.
My workload in Mexico involved zero Excel but a lot of maracas and glittery ribbon. Matt got to experience how truly awkward I am around my coworkers. The virgin mojitos flowed like water and we had a jacuzzi! On our balcony! There were 11 restaurants at the resort and I lost count of how many pools there were. I never once wore the cardigans I packed or figured out the layout of the property. Our faces are freckled and legs a little sunburned. I got to meet the spouses/partners/significant others of my fellow employees and boss which has been a career-long dream of mine because I'm super nosy and fascinated by their personal lives but too shy/antisocial to ask about them. I would like to go back, please.
