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.
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