Mullygrubs 

  
Rainy days are the worst, unless you have the freedom to curl up with a good book and wait for the world to dry out.

As for me, I am at home allegedly working. My work phone rings and I watch it buzz and vibrate like a trapped cicada. It is my prisoner and I don’t choose to be a kind guard today.

Dripping, grey skies bring out the bad employee in me. It brings out the whining, resistant to change, let’s-push-everything-out-until-Monday, really bad employee. Normally, I am at least half way compliant, sort of positive, and willing to tolerate company shenanigans. 

Another call comes in, this time from the couch as I sit in this impossibly hard-backed chair.

“Come, have a lay down. Your book is welcome, too.”

I try to find another reason to resist.

I am almost done with Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. A day like this would be perfect to find out what happens in Texas, his last stop. It is likely more of nothing, just another case of the mullygrubs. Still, I need to know.

Plus, my priorities are set around escaping reality, especially when Monday through Friday, so this would play right into my main objective.

Before committing to anything, I ask, “What about the cats?”

“Don’t be silly. They’re already here, waiting for you.”

As if on cue, the little one looks over the arm of the couch and gives me a sleepy mew. I see she has been warming up my favorite spot. The other two are curled up, deep in their normal 20 daily hours of beauty sleep.

My will power is weakening and I am walking towards the big, tan beast that beckons from the next room.

Just a quick nap, I bargain with myself and promise to work twice as hard in twenty minutes. Closing my eyes, I briefly consider that rainy days might not be the worst, after all.

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