I have learned something very important about myself today: I really dislike “days off.” Or perhaps what I’ve learned is that when things are going well, I hate to upset the status quo. It’s also possible that I learned about having a giant stick up my ass, but you can make that call after I explain.
You may have noticed the dearth of updates on this thing lately (if for no other reason than that I incessantly call attention to the problem). I have been very busy, with the sudden influx of jobs (two of them!) and Connor going through a particularly delightful stage (he thinks “love” is an essential gardening tool!) and an overflowing garden (fifty-odd squash plants!) and the usual round of husband-house-cats-sleep. (Let us not even mention the brilliant idea I had to go into food-bloggy cahoots with Alicia when we are both rather busy, and we probably shouldn’t bring up my predilection for a sparkling kitchen either.) Several times, I’ve sworn to myself that I would leap upon the very first opportunity to do nothing that came my way. So today, with Connor packed off to visit his great-grandparents in Albuquerque for the weekend, no work matters straining at deadline-point, and the garden reasonably well-tended and not threatening hostile takeover, I did nothing.
Well, I did nothing if you don’t count activities such as “pacing the living room pretending to have a stretch while actually rearranging our wall photos and dusting crevices” and “anxiously creating lists of problems to be solved and tasks to be completed, only to settle into my chair with a resentful harrumph and check Go Fug Yourself for the 19th time.” I have hated every minute of this day, and I would have signed into ChaCha at many points throughout the day, except that lounging about had become a point of pride. After all, I was once the queen of lounging! I love summer for its heat, langour, and napping potential! I am… I am… oh, fuck, I am bored. I’d noticed, over the past several months, a new and fresh hatred of weekends, but I thought it came about because my weekdays were similarly empty. I thought that by Friday I had simply reached my nothing-to-do capacity and looked forward to Mondays because at least there were new blawwwwg posts to amuse me. Apparently this is not quite so; it seems more accurate to say that I am a big whiny whiner who can’t amuse herself without strict guidelines and the promise of monetary (or gardentary, or child-being-adorabletary) reward.
People, I ask you: Can this be healthy? It feels downright un-American, all this enjoyment of my work and disdaining of “pleasure.” Maybe if I were richer I would have solved the problem by heading out for some hedonistic shopping followed by excessive wine-and-McDonald’s consumption, but I somehow doubt it. (Though the wine does sound nice.) Alas, my fancy new debit card has not arrived, and unless I want to drive to Indiana there is no other way to access the stockpile of cash my new hardworking habits have built. I have considered and rejected movie-watching, cooking, cleaning, and squirting the cats with a hose. (With the exception of that last one, they all sound too much like work to fit into my self-mandated day off — even movie-watching, because I would feel guilty if I didn’t watch a particular movie and write the review that I offered to Kate lo, these many moons ago.)
I have to come to you for the perfect solution. Please send me some email telling me what an asshole I am, or leave a comment to the same effect. I will pass the rest of this neverending day replying with gusto and interest, and flamewars technically count as fun so I won’t be breaking the Day Off Rules. Ready… go!