A mime routine, a belly shirt and a hug -- all I need to feel better about life.

There are pizza days. There are macaroni and cheese days. And there are Velveeta Shells and Cheese days.

This is a Velveeta day.

Pizza days are celebratory, macaroni days are everyday days and Velveeta days are horrible, "I need a hug" kind of days. And I need a hug.

Life happened today, and it was tiring, and stressful. But we've done all we can do today, and I came home a weary, tired old soul, using my cliches and all. I am too tired to be incredibly original.

And when I get to feeling like there isn't enough Velveeta in the world to make me feel better, I like to think not of the good things (I'm way too melodramatic for that), but rather of the bad. As in, "hey, it could be worse." As in, "see, Erin, look at how bad it was. This is nothing."

I'm not talking poverty, or my parents' divorce, or bad breakups. I'm talking about weird, "I don't know how I survived" moments.

For instance, speech class in high school. The class itself wasn't that terrible; public speaking is a pain, but I'll do it. No, no, no. It was the pantomime lesson that made me want to quit living. A seven-minute pantomime routine in front of scary upperclassmen? It took a lot of pretending people in their underwear to get through that one. And I'm not even sure why picturing people in their underwear helps. Anyone?

Or, I could be living in Michigan. That was bad. And hot. And humid. And the sun shone in the apartment and roasted the place. Dang, that was pretty bad. Whoever said "global warming, global schwarming" can go to Michigan next summer and suffer as we did.

Or, perhaps, I could be at the office of my college newspaper, startled by Bombs on Secor, who'd found me in the office, alone. It was July, but he had a winter coat on, and a belly shirt. (Those are enough to make me want to die, too.) Maybe I'd watched too many "Cold Case Files," but all I could think of was how they'd describe me on the TV show. I wondered if Bill Curtis would read my story. OK, so really I was feeling around on the desk behind me for a letter opener, and trying not to cry while he yelled "The terrorists put bombs inside your tires -- TERRORISTS -- and they're all under the road on Secor. THERE ARE BOMBS ON SECOR." Man. They should not sell alcohol to people with belly shirts.

Or, I could be 13 again, and standing by a hotel swimming pool in Columbus, Ohio, waiting to go upstairs, and have some random lady wander over to me and hug me, while saying "I miss my grandkids. Gimme a hug." That was terrifying, too.

See, when I think about all these things, today's life doesn't seem so bad. I mean, I survived a belly shirt, a random hug, pantomiming ... I'm a lot stronger than I thought.

And I also have shells and cheese boiling on the stove. It's going to be OK. Monday's almost over.