To you, it's just an omelette. To me, it's an accomplishment.

Because I am neurotic, I watch a black cloud roll in every Saturday around 6 p.m., where it lingers a few miles above my head, slowly descending on me as the night progresses. By the time I wake up on Sunday, it's usually down at my level, and I walk around with it looking like Pigpen. A very gloomy Pigpen.

I can't help it too much. I can distract myself, I can sit in a dark room, having absolutely no fun just so the time doesn't fly by. But usually I just sit and am angry that five-day work weeks are the norm.

I'm a lot of fun then, as you may have imagined.

I don't hate my job. Far from it. But I could win the lottery every Sunday and feel the same way (only pout in better clothes, in a warmer house). I just. Want. To stay heeere.

T0day, however, was different. I got up at 9 instead of 11. I went out of the house before it was time to go to work. I ate breakfast 0ut, AND I saw friends. This is an all-new occurance for me. Everyone else in the world says "wow, friends." Dave says "YAY, Erin's out in public! And she's not scowling!"

I didn't think about having to go to work just minutes after eating my omelette. That's huge. Huge.

When my friend called to ask if Dave and I wanted to accompany him and his wife to breakfast, I laughed inside, thinking "Oh, god. There goes that friendship." But as I sat down in the booth in the local restaurant with my cheesy egg-cellent meal, I didn't feel perturbed at it being Sunday. I didn't even feel annoyed at talking about the "w" word that Dave and I dare not utter in our home before Sunday at noon.

And when I got to work, I was in a good mood. I don't even recognize myself anymore. See, I guess all it takes is some greasy hash browns and some orange juice. Who knew.