Take Me Out

Incredibly childish I am.

I look the part of the professional this morning. Typing away at the keyboard, flipping through a copy of the paper, taking sips from my ever-so-mature coffee (or, as my flatmate puts it - and I'm not joking - "iced espresso-based beverage").

But I have to control bouncing in my seat and running out the door.

My small bag is packed and waiting in my car. Tank's full of gas. My blue shirt, featuring "MILLAR 15" on the back, wants to be worn. After looking for half a dozen places to store it, my ticket for tomorrow night's game is in the purse positioned next to me - I figured that was the safest place for it. I know Wells is scheduled to start and that our seats are on the first base side. I get an added kick out of the fact that mine is Seat 13.

I just want (wantwantwantwantwant) to get to Fenway already. I'm excited about this game; I'm looking forward to a summer holiday weekend and all of the dopey Americana things that will come with it. Seeing family and friends in Boston. Taking in a ballgame with friends (albeit friends who have requested the presence of Cleveland's Coco Crisp, but I'll take what I can get - hehe). A brief sojourn in Beverly - which will, naturally, lead to a required stop at Richardson's (Ben and Jerry, you know I love you, but you ain't got nuthin on the ice cream my first hometown produces) - and a return to Vermont in time to introduce my mother (husband-less for about a week because my father's visiting Utah) to fireworks on the waterfront.

And I'll even have an opportunity to relax.

But between now and then, I have to embrace my mature side. Do everything I need to do and demonstrate the professional demeanor I've been honing for years.

But I don't wanna...

Have a happy holiday.