Friday, April 17, 2009

Huh, anxious.

This week, I spent several hours at school for this and that, and I am contemplating the fact that I will have to go to work in August. The horror.

I am about to enter the seven stages of grief, and right now, I am in

1. denial. Please do not, if you happen to be talking to me, try to describe the amount of time I have between now and when school starts again in units of days, weeks, or even months. All those units have the end result of making the time I have left to me appear very small. I am not interested in information conveyed in these units. If you would like to talk to me about this subject--and really, it might be dangerous for you, so I would recommend, for your own health and well-being, just don't--but if you have to, if you must, perhaps you could convey it in the form of bird whistles. Or, like, a dance.

After denial comes 2. guilt. Why have I not accomplished more? What about the playing the piano I was going to do every day? the meditating? the total transformation of my inner life and also the way I was going to look thinner? and sexier? when I came back. I feel a little guilty about that.

Next, I believe, will come bargaining (3.), and I have a lot of bargains I would like to strike with the Powers that Rule the Universe, if they would let me keep writing and I would not have to go back to work. I would keep my house clean! I would bake bread! I would volunteer my time for worthy causes! And: cheerful--I would be so cheerful!

3 comments:

Nik said...

You have been extremely cheerful. We look forward to your return so you can complain with the rest of us. Think of it as rejoining the grumpy community. We're a lot of fun.

DiaNe said...

--"Good, dad, admitting you have a problem is the first step"
-"Is it also the last step?"
--"No."
-"Ohhh!"

(Simpsons, Lisa and Homer)

Mary said...

"Dancing days are here again as the summer evenings grow." Zeppelin says it all, the bitter and the sweet, not that I'm mentioning dancing or summer or what might come after summer. Pot stickers, however, make life hopeful and sweet. Cook on, dude, cook on.

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