under observation

 

I have the luxury of not going into the office until 1pm. That's five glorious hours of stolen time I have each day. (I know, I know, "what a bitch.") With all that time on my hands you'd think I'd at least blog on a more regular basis. But you know, I'm doing things. Lovely things like drinking tea and reading. And I run and cook almost everyday. However, maybe it often looks like I'm just being distracted by Twitter. If there was anyone there to see me, anyway. But there's not, so I'm free to flit around with a towel on my head, wearing frilly underwear until I have to face the world. It's delightful. That is, until there's someone there to witness it and ask questions like, "Is this what you do every day?!" To which I have no choice but to utter lame defenses.

M was home sick last week, and that's precisely what unfolded. I was happily drinking tea, making stuffed shells for the first time, wearing one of the aforementioned towel-headdress ensembles, when Sniffles McGee comes in and demands to know if this is my regular routine. I'm not sure who he thought I was making those stuffed shells for, but my eyebrows delivered the message that they'd be for the guy next door if he didn't rephrase his question. "I just didn't realize you had so much free time, lucky," he said (probably after sneezing on me). Well, that sucked all the joy out of it.

If this were Italy, no one would question simply enjoying the enviable number of hours I have to myself. Plus, it isn't ALL free time. I do have freelance work and my own writing, mostly when I'm not wallowing in self-doubt and questioning whether I have anything meaningful to contribute to the world. Not being accountable to anyone other than yourself is a big responsibility. And I'll tell you, one I'm not sure i'm up to on most days. Seeing that, as you might suspect, often I do a whole lot of technically non-productive things, which I do very much enjoy. At least, I think I do until there's someone there to see the tree fall. Then I suddenly feel like I need to justify myself. Though I'm not really sure why. Because let's be honest, is M really judging me for how I spend my time? Probably not. Especially considering the fact that it mostly works in his favor in the form of elaborate ("elaborate" might be pushing it) meals and a tidy apartment. 

So I'm obviously projecting. I mean, look how defensive I'm getting. It's me who feels guilty about not using her time wisely. I'm the one judging and holding myself to some warped standard rather than wholeheartedly enjoying my freedom. No one else has said a word. Of course, maybe none of you knew that I was being so frivolous with my time? Well, those of you who I haven't sent IMs to in the middle of the day containing links to things like wellthatsadorable.com. For the rest of you, this is a confession. I am frivolous with my time and I like it. But I'm going to start liking it more. Try and stop me.

the past is always rosy

I'm going to Maryland tomorrow and onward to NYC on Monday. One of my best friends is picking me up at the airport, from where we're taking a leisurely three-hour jaunt to meet our old roommates/current loveliest-ladies-we-know for dinner on Main Street in Newark, Delaware. Not a glamorous town, but the site of four fairly flawless years of my life. At least that's how I remember them. 

But did I appreciate the moments while I was there? I hope so, because when I look back on any memory of that time, I practically vibrate with happiness. I might go as far to say that from ages 18-22, everything was perfect. What I'm glossing over are the dramatic almost-break ups with my first love, panicking about grad school applications and the sadness I felt when my nana fell ill. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I've buried those memories not wrought with joy deeper. Which I guess is okay. It's probably better for one's mental wellbeing to keep the happy images more accessible. Though surely this doesn't always serve one well.

The first thing that comes to mind is the danger of forgetting what a relationship was really like. You remember the good times, the wonderful things that he/she did and said, they way he/she looked at you and all the little quirks that were so endearing in the beginning. Ignored are the arguments, the insurmountable obstacles, the reasons why you broke up and how nauseating all those little quirks were at the end. The memory can play devilish tricks. If you're not careful, you may find yourself pining for the reconciliation of a relationship that never existed anywhere other than in your mind. What a damn waste of time.

The other is forgetting the realities of a particular place. This is my fear of New York. I know that I left for a reason. I just can't remember what it was. "I was having a bad winter" doesn't seem like totally sound logic with which to justify packing up one's life and moving to the other side of the country, sight unseen. Yet, that's what I did and no one stopped me. It must not have seemed like a COMPLETELY outlandish idea. Which leads me to believe that maybe things weren't as lovely as I recall. How can this be?! I look back on New York so fondly. Could NYC be my bad relationship that I long to return to? Anything's possible. So, I guess, consider this documented evidence that I am knowingly going into the storm for the week. And like any idiot, I couldn't be more excited.