Today I could, or rather, should do seven loads of laundry and seek intervention in the form of a pedicure. I’ve opted to read my new book and watch my dog sleep instead.
I’m ambitious like that.
Honestly, I worked six days last week, today is my one day off before it starts all over again, and I just don’t want to be productive.
Besides, I hung my own mirror this weekend.
The man who was supposed to do it for me is in Minnesota… perhaps permanently.
In truth, I never needed his help.
I was merely trying to make him feel useful when I asked him to do it for me. I needed to know if he would do what he said he would, and he didn’t.
I wanted to give him a chance to show me who he was. And he did.
He failed my simple test spectacularly.
As I recounted the story to my friend Mike on a recent phone call, I told him it was imperative that I could count on someone. He agreed. “Yes — because they can count on you.”
That’s the beautiful thing about friends.
They know you. They see you.
They know who you are. They’ve walked with you through so many seasons of your life that you show yourselves to one another again and again, sometimes without even meaning to do so.
I find it hard to replicate this while dating, everyone on their best behavior at dinner, struggling to be mysterious or romantic or whatever. It just isn’t natural… and I utterly despise it.
For a time, I felt inexorably pulled toward a traditional life — one with a husband and children.
Now I’m not so sure that’s where I’m heading.
I’m not sure I can handle what it takes to get there.
I like space.
I like silence.
Children don’t allow that. Husbands do, I suppose… if they like golf.
I wonder if that’s why I’m so attracted to golfers — because I know they’ll be gone for hours and days on end?
Or is it simply because J. Crew, Brooks Brothers, and Vineyard Vines make me ovulate? I don’t know.
One doesn’t know — can’t know.
I suppose that is because one’s head and one’s heart are very far apart at times.
I started this post for another purpose, and now it has become this.
Like the laundry that should be thrown into the machine and the nails that should be filed and polished, those words and that purpose will be delayed another day.
Now I’m going to straighten the art my dog decided to rearrange last night and go back to my book.
I, have a problem with my couch.
I almost can’t even look at that wretched thing.