I really wanted to write on the weekend, and I don’t know why I’ve not been able to get into the mood of it. I’ve been exhausted, overworked, stretched too thin, all of that. I’m in a good mood, so I’m not depressed or anything. I’m just sort of being a Steff-of-all-things for everybody else that I’ve got too little of me left for me these days, and I guess writing would mean I’d have even less left. Sometimes, the curtains pulled, lights down low, doors locked, and calendar free, and nothing accomplished, well, it all adds up to saving a bit of yourself when it doesn’t seem you’ve got much of it left.
It certainly doesn’t do much to help the blog out, now, does it?
That’s just the way the existential cookie crumbles, though. Yesterday was my accomplish-nothing day, and fuck I loved it.
Now here it is, 9 minutes to 9, and I should be on the bus to Adiosville and work, but instead I’ve foolishly begun to blog. I guess this is how it begins. The “I shouldn’t, but I will” posting cracks the veneer of protectiveness that develops when you stop posting daily or whatever, and slowly I get back into the mode. I want to blog, it’s the doing-of-it that’s the problem. Life just has different ideas. Normally I have enough flexibility in my schedule I can bump things and stay home to write no matter when the urge hits. Not these days.
The reality is, I’m kind of in this vicious cycle of 14-hour days every single day, between all the shit I’ve needed to catch up on, work, commuting, and so forth, and that’s just getting amped even higher this week. I’ve committed to nine-hour days daily for the third week in a row, plus, I’m cat-sitting for a friend in evenings with visits to feed and play with his feline, and on top of that there’s a massive cold snap resulting in long, cold bus commutes all week.
Writing? Yeah. That’s going to happen. Pfft. In your wet little fantasies. Mine too.
On the upside of everything, I have my house cleaned. My Christmas tree is up, my gifts are all wrapped, my wardrobe is bought, all I gotta do now is get a turkey in time for the holidays. I say that like it’s so easily done. Sigh.
Now, weight-wise, I really need to weigh myself before the holidays get here proper. I’m not too worried. Wherever I am, it’s temporary. I do know my jean jacket that’s always had spandex in it, and always could be washed and shrunk and would be snug-anew on me, is now literally hanging off me and also suddenly looks two sizes too big. This is good. Shocking, but good. Yesterday was the first time I’d put it on since October. Awesome realization. “The zipper’s flailing around on me. Wait. This thing’s loose! Holy shit.”
So, readers, I am well. I am tired, I’m fighting the good fight, I’m barely keeping my head above water, but I’m gonna, and I’m happy about the holidays coming, I’m excited about Christmas for the first time in years, and I’ll be writing soon, when everything starts to settle down. And I’m going to be having a really interesting journey into the self when I do, because, between the last time I had a writing streak and now, I’ve completely changed myself again from head to toe — all new wardrobe, new hair, clean apartment, new furniture, have begun a new exercise program, am eating healthier… it’s a strange progressive world I’ve happened upon, but it’s a good place to be. It’s been a fucking incredible six weeks packed with more changing-of-self in six weeks than I have ever, ever managed in my life. My head’s spinning and I’m not sure which way’s ground, but gimme time, baby.
Don’tcha worry about me. And just hang on a little while longer. We’ll have our quality time. I promise.