I never cease to see humor in the tiny tab in the lower right-hand corner of this screen, labeled "Complain."
Why is it that throughout the day, I long for nothing more than the chance to sit down and write, and then when I find myself in front of the computer, with the blog post or the document open in front of me, I long for nothing more than to be doing anything else?
I mean, this is a real, extraordinary chance. The kid is home sick, and he's still occupied enough that I have the mental space to concentrate. I had a post in mind, a good one, all about vulnerability and how much I fucking loathe it. Mine, that is. Everyone else's is just fine. Healthy, even. But mine is terrible, dreadful, full of terror and darkness and loss of perspective.
It was pretty, that post, and poignant. It would have started with the toads I was seeing on the way home a couple of nights ago, frozen in my headlights in a pugnaciously defensive posture, so defenseless against my tires and the tires of the cars that would come after mine. It would have gone on to explore how utterly without armor we are, really, in the face of our darkest fears, our least likeable traits, and how silly it is to pretend otherwise. It would have been deep.
Instead, I'm stuck, distracted and overwhelmed, wondering why I seem to be the sole support, wavering between huddling in a corner with a mindless phone game, taking off for a walk, or pushing through and knocking out the responsibilities piling, endlessly, endlessly, on my shoulders. Metaphorically, of course, but I feel it literally, too. My shoulders ache, my neck hurts, my back twinges. I, with the perfect dancer's posture, find it hard to sit up straight. A walk it is, then. Thanks for listening. Glad we had this chat.