This morning I was escorted to the Media Centre for a half an hour of e-mail. I tried to play surprised and grateful. Obvs none of the staff idiots here realize I’ve been checking the spare 'berry in my spare time.
(Side note: Kaylen, while I appreciate your notes and concern, I’m not sure I needed to know every last detail of what you did over the weekend, down to the earrings you chose for a fro-yo fiesta-lette with Mads. I mean, for reals?)
After a brief faux-flirtation with the real world via the interwebs, it was down to the open-air meeting atrium for an intro on Rehab Life. I got to meet the other miscreants who’ll be working the program with me over the course of the next 28-day cycle (two of whom will be coming soon to a theater near you, btw), as well as our Recovery Coach, Zac.
Zac. Z-A-C. The absence of a final “h” (or even a "k") is really unforgivable, in my humble opinion.
Zac’s job was to walk us through the Three Tiers of Recovery, Zephyr-style: body, mind, and soul. But since this is my second time 'round the wacky merry-go-round here, I allowed myself to tune out and take in the local scenery. That is: the locals.
One washed-up former soap star in particular caught my eye. His eyes are exactly the shade of our front lawn in Newport after a rainstorm, and his nervous energy is palpable. You could power a third-world country with the tension radiating off of him. Wonder what’s got him so wound up. Our first group session isn’t until later, so until then, I’m reduced to mere speculation.
Of course, I know better than to get involved while under lockdown.
I’m the type of girl who learns from her mistakes. So frankly, it doesn’t much matter what’s got green-eyes on red alert.
In here, it’s every (wo)man for herself.
location: enjoying a soak in the tub. at least my private suite has its own bath.
romantic prospects: what did I say about learning from past mistakes?