I shouldn’t be writing now.  I definitely shouldn’t be writing this right now.  I’ve just put in a nice 12-hour day and if I want to sound coherent, then I should have some time to collect my thoughts.  Unfortunately there are too many wanting to crowd the space on this page, urging me to put them down to relieve the over-crowded conditions in my brain.

Imagine:  The “I wish I’d been more diligent about writing something of substance in the last two years” thoughts sitting alongside those having to do with, “Get to work at 6:15 today so I can make sure everyone has everything for the planned session today” robotic reminders.  Or consider the awkwardness of the “Oh my $#&* goodness, she really needs to get a grip” thoughts and the “Goodness, I didn’t realize her husband’s boss’s wife served on that committee” thoughts being in close proximity.  Shameful.

Like I said: coherent.

Last night I sat on the couch after I got home and begrudgingly embraced the old familiar YOU’VE JUST BEEN RUN OVER BY A TRUCK feeling I became accustomed to after 20 years of the opening of school.  You plan for it, it happens, you’re exhausted.  Period.  You get to the point of being able to look past the tread marks that run up and down your body and learn to admire your new physique, tempted to ask others if you look good like this;  more slender.

Remember the part about coherence?

In my flattened state, I sat on the couch in front of the television — something I never do before eight at night.  With a glass of wine in hand, I flipped channels until I found a show that required no effort on my part to stare at other than tolerating the commercials.  It was one of those shows where pack rats are reformed by cheerful home organization/decorator types, and thinking about it now makes complete sense:  A mess is transformed into something blissfully organized; there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end; the sun comes up and everybody’s happy when it’s over.


If I wasn’t so flat, I’d apply to be a guinea pig on one of those shows because it seems like cheap therapy.  But I could also build myself a nifty exercise program that would get all my endorphins coursing through my veins (arteries?) and then I’d be able to fit more into my day.

I’ll make a note of that.

Not Quite Q & A

I’m disgusted.

Well, at least right now I am.  I’m supposed to be doing my work and I’m doing this instead.  It’s because I don’t want to do my work.  I figure I did work at home for 20 years and that was enough.  I want to enjoy my life, my home and my family.  I don’t want anything else to interfere with those things after working hours.  And yes, I deserve that.

At what point in life is one satisfied?  At what point do we accept who and what we are?  That we’ve done what we’re supposed to have done and be over it.

I’d love to say I’m satisfied.  But life is like being in a candy store.  There’s always a brightly colored new sweet dangling in front of me and it’s distracting.  Isn’t that the point?  Are we really supposed to waste time convincing ourselves that THIS is all there is?  Of course I know everything’s relative, but my satisfaction has nothing to do with having more in a tangible sense.  It’s more about having an opportunity to (insert a dissertation here).

I don’t know which end is up.  I don’t know who I am any more, nor what I’m supposed to do.

I’m sure someone out there can tell me this is really all randomness.  That all this energy put into trying to figure things out is just a waste of time.  In fact, I’m sure there are hundreds who have written books about it.  They end up on Oprah and are famous for a minute or two.  And then they end up like the rest of us.

It’s pathetic.

It’s really not pathetic.  I just feel like I’m supposed to think that because I want to beat others to the punch.

Nothing makes sense.

Actually, everything always makes sense, and I’m tired of it.

Windy Summer Days & Pickles

Windy summer days are gifts, their bursts of cool air a welcome relief to my perpetually damp middle-aged skin.  I  stand on the side of the house where the gusts are strongest and raise my arms a bit, allowing it to wash over me in much the same way water does as I swim.  It’s soothing.

I hold my face to the sky feeling the warmth and breathe deeply, completely content, and want the moment to last longer than it does.

I think I should get my book and sit in the sun — perhaps nap a minute or two.  There’s a place on the front steps behind the hedge where I can open my sand chair and somewhat hide from the neighbors as they pass, noticing that they try not to look my way.  But no, there’s someone coming to talk about a fence for the back yard, and knowing he’ll come through the house, I dart from one pile to the next, picking up, tossing away, sweeping, and scooping. With as little effort as possible, I, too, can still pretend like I might be Martha occasionally.

I slide open most of the windows, giving the stuffy warm air in the house a reason to escape while it has the chance and pause long enough at the top of the stairs to look around, deciding that I’ll stay in and feel the breeze through the window next to my desk while I work.


I may not be able to feel the air move over my skin, but I can watch the thin branches on the trees in the back bend in the wind as I’m thinking, and see the unusual clouds change from one formation to the next.

I can go out and sit in my chair any time.

Besides,  I’d have ended up even more sweaty than I already am and once the wind dies down, my only option will be to open the freezer and insert my face, hoping that will cool me down. It’s a fairly weak option compared to the relief a windy summer day provides, and it’s far less dramatic, but in a pinch, it’s better than feeling like I’m the main ingredient in a rather hearty brine.

Think about it: pickles are always better chilled, aren’t they?