I'm three hours into a three-day weekend, and I am behind schedule.
I am supposed to be packing. I am supposed to be sorting through all of my extraneous underused possessions for stuff to fill out the supposed garage sale we are having tomorrow, in less than 18 hours. I am at least supposed to be picking up the random things I tend to leave strewn about the house on a minute-by-minute basis, cluttering up tidy rooms less than an hour after they are officially cleaned. I am at the very least supposed to be taking a shower and putting on makeup and clean clothes; after all, it's one o'clock in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas.
Instead, I am sitting at my computer with the bedroom window open, listening to thunder and rain a few blocks away. I can't actually see any rain, I can only hear it approaching, which feels very medieval somehow. I'm listening to the song "The Promise" by When In Rome on repeat much too loudly for someone who randomly tries to be a good neighbor. I'm singing "I'm sorry but I'm just thinking of the right words to say, I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be - but if you wait around awhile, I'll make you fall for me, I promise you..." much too dramatically for a self-respecting 27 year old.
I just stared out the window at nothing in particular for a good two and a half minutes. This is either a sign of deep relaxation or deep non-motivation. This is all I want to do this weekend, I've just realized. I don't want to pack. I don't want to sell crappy stuff to strangers for pennies on the dollar. I don't want to pick things up that will only be left out again later today (by me).
Isn't that what summer is all about? I declare that this should be the summer of nothing-doing, kind of like the summer before I started high school - that summer of simple calm before everything started to happen, before my Self started to actualize. Relaxation. Hibernation. Rejuvenation. Like a O magazine cover, you know?
Well, that was a nice fantasy. The vacuum cleaner calls.
Lucy loves you |
