Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Meh and bleh

Today, I wasted twelve hours of my life.
Read a little, ate a little, got on Facebook a little, napped a little.
Took a shower, dressed, and then went nowhere. Unless you count the front porch or the back patio. I went there four times each. Had coffee; had tea; drank ice water.
Read the Sunday newspaper, started a book (seven pages and then put it down), trolled Facebook some more, made the bed, dusted some furniture, walked in going-nowhere circles.
HAS grilled salmon for supper. Veggies and garlic-herb pasta rounded out the meal.
I ate; I asked Child Three to clean up supper dishes. She did, without complaint.

And now it's 7:15 p.m. and still I have gone nowhere. I feel restless and melancholy and anxious and tired. I feel guilty that I've had an entire day stretched out before me and I have wasted it. Cancer patients know not to do this; people vacationing know not to do this; lovers spending weekends together know not to do this. So why am I here, (boringly) holed up in my two-story suburban home, dreaming of city life and food vendors and people passing by?

I tell you: this life here is backing me into a corner. I need a career job again; I need my own money; I need another Sunday--the kind that doesn't have enough hours to get everything done that I have planned.

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