Am I trappend in the neverending day?

As I'm sitting or should I say snuggied at my desk (yes, it is those treacherous things you've seen infomercials for at 2:00 in the morning because I work in a igloo surrounded by TVs) I began to wonder: Is it still too late for me to get the hell out of this place, move down south, find a rich southern gentlemen (wait, do those actually exist or only in test tubes) and become a Southern belle?

Seriously sometimes I feel like I cannot breathe and that my fingers and mind are in auto pilot when I’m at work. Thank god, I occasionally listen to music at work (that's not rude right, oh well if it is, who the F cares) because sometimes I feel like I'm going to go like Michael Douglass' character in "Falling Down." You know who I'm talking about. The guy that went all ape shit on one hot ass day in L.A., walking around with a rifle, yelling at McD's because he wanted an Egg McMuffin and all they had were Big Macs. Now mind you I'm not going to go as beyond as him (AKA: carrying a rifle) but let's just say I can now understand where he's coming from.

Other moments I daydream what would happen if I just went home, packed everything and bought a one-way business class ticket to London. I'm talking about one of those seats that turn into a bed, where you get slippers a blanket and food and not for extra. Granted I haven’t gotten figured out what I would do once my ass and 4 suitcases (If I'm going to be living in a hostel I can at least look cute) land in the London airport. Most of the times I secretly hope I bump into Jude Law, Colin Farrell (post-rehab) Justin Timberlake, Idris Elba, Tim Riggins AKA Taylor Kitsch (why would he be in London you ask? Because it's my fantasy) in a cute cafe while I'm getting a delicious cup of tea and a scone, resulting in us talking for hours about anything and everything until he invites to me dinner at his place, which eventually leads to us in a relationship and me moving in (IE: Think Vicky Cristina Barcelona, minus Javier Bardem and a crazy ex-wife). But I digress.

It's like as soon as I'm finished with some tedious or time-consuming task another one is added on. I feel work and my assignments are like that blow up Bozo clown, the one that every time you hit it, it never stays down, instead it just pops right back up. What was that supposed to teach us anyway? Endurance? Never give up hope? Perseverance? How about none of the above. All it taught or gave anyone was a direct hate for clowns, how to build rage and frustration for an object to the point you want to rip it to shreds (Once again I somehow circle back to violence - maybe I need to go to anger management class, or take a kickboxing class. If I was saying all of this to my friend who I'm going to call Buddah, she would say I just need to get laid, which I do but that's for another post and another time).

And to make matters worse (I wish I could say better) I have a date Friday night at 11:00pm. Hella late, right! Lets just hope I can stay awake. Now, that is how I know that deep down I'm an old biddy at heart. I'm 25 so going out at 11:00 should be second nature to me particularly since that’s the time most NYC adults in their twenties or older start getting ready to go out. Not me though. By 11:00 weekdays or weeknights, I'm usually in my PJ's in bed. Who are we kidding; when I get home I immediately get into the PJs. I whip them on quicker than Clark Kent went through revolving door, exited in a cape and tights and flew off like Superman. Except I'm flying my ass to bed where I watch Grey's Anatomy (where's my McDreamy?) 30 Rock, The Office and old episodes of Friday Night Lights where I drool over Tim Riggins and Matt Saracen wishing I could be in a huddle on their beds screaming "Full Eyes, Clear Hearts Can't Lose!!!" But lets u-turn and try to get back to the point. I have a date, a late date with this guy, let's just call him Jim because I met him at the gym. Aren't I clever? Anyway here's the backstory: When I first met him I thought he was nice and cute, possibly played for the same team. Then I saw him again thought outside of the gym where I gave him a hug (now remember I thought we played for the same team). Fast forward: I'm doing my thing on the treadmill, singing (quietly) along to my jams, imagining my fierce fit body months from now looking like Beyonce when he appears and asks me if "we could get some grub sometime." As I read this now I must of been clearly delusional perhaps from the sweat or the fumes in the gym because no one really says, “grub” and not when you’re asking someone out on a date! Him using the word should have been sign to say no but it was like my mind and mouth were on autopilot and I didn't know any other words like,"Thank you for the invite but I have a boyfriend" or "Can't see you me at the gym? I'm trying not to eat! "Not this week, let's try next week." But no my ass had to say yes because it's been so long and beggars can't be choosers and who says no to a free meal and he's a clean vegetarian, who showers, shaves and wears cotton not hemp. We've talked a couple of times on the phone (I'll save that for another post) where he's gained a few points and recently lost a couple.

That's not where my issue lies though. My issue is his name. His real name. I can't say it. It just doesn't sound right coming out of my mouth or anyone else's. Why you ask? Because it sounds like a name only a southern 96-year-old man with one tooth, who drinks moonshine has. Is it wrong that I'm already ending this before it began because I don't like his name? What is wrong with me? Shouldn't I look past the surface? When I told my mom she immediately responded with "Oh no, that's not going to work. He's not right for you." No influence there Mom, thanks. Oh and did I mention she says it every time with a Southern accent as if she's the old wife or town friend of the 96-year-old, one tooth moonshine drinking man. Thanks mom, you’re really helping me get past this. I just can't picture introducing him to anyone and saying, here's my boyfriend "Jim." I can barely say it myself. I think I might ask him if it's a nickname for anything? But without the "that's a weird name, why did your mother pick that" tone. Let's see how things go between now and Friday. It should be interesting.

I'm confused, annoyed and in desperate need of a day off in the City.