It seems I just can’t get started on anything. Or if I get started I can’t finish. A meme floated through Facebook tonight in which a woman muses “I’m very busy doing things I don’t need to do in order to avoid doing anything I’m actually supposed to be doing.” Yesterday, I didn’t even get to this. There’s no decent excuse– reading the New York Times online shouldn’t count.
When I lived in Boston, my landlord, an itinerant architect, lived and worked upstairs. Often he would call downstairs to see if I wanted tea or if I’d like to accompany him out for breakfast or would I come upstairs and give my opinion on how he’d arranged his closet. (None of these were the come-ons they sound like on paper.) They were the telling clues that he had drawings he had to get finished. Nearly a quarter of a century later, when he calls me (from San Francisco now) just to chat mid-morning, I may ask him “Arranging your sock drawer, again?” and he will laugh and say “Yes, oh my God, I’m so busy.” He’s not kidding.
My own to-do list is so long that if I actually wrote it out on paper it would cascade off the desk and across the floor, rolling through the dining room (which needs straightening badly) and out the kitchen door (which I meant to paint six months ago) and out into the garden, which needs so much work I don’t even know where to begin.
Perhaps that’s the problem. I don’t know where to begin. My most important project got off to a great start this spring and then ground to a halt. I will come back to it, but the neglect eats at me. I have a puppy that needs training. I thought she still needed a name, but my husband put his foot down and said that she will either go by the last name we tried out or she’ll have no name at all. So, Grace she is and will be. He has a point, I’ve been spinning my wheels on that for a month, longer. Last week it was going to be Aurora (Rory for short). I jettisoned that about Wednesday, less than 100 hours before some madman ruined the name for most Americans, like Columbine or Katrina.
This morning when I awoke, my husband was doing something in the little annexed corner of our room. When I was fully awake I realized that he and our son had removed the daybed from that corner and put a tall bookcase and desk there. They must have done it last night while I was messing around on the computer, looking for dog names, but by the time I came to bed I was too sleepy to even turn my head that way. I lay back on the pillow with a sigh.
“What’s the matter?”
“I dunno. I’m depressed.”
“Depressed?” I didn’t answer back. I just had nothing to say. They’d worked hard, it would seem ungrateful to reveal I’d just been thinking about it, I wasn’t sure that was a change I wanted to make and gee, maybe that’s not the right spot for those. Especially given the wet, sticky heat that clings to us like a blanket of jello. Maybe I’ll like it better as time goes on. Of course, the daybed is in pieces stacked up against the wall and that will have to go to storage now. One more thing for the list.
Am I really depressed? I shrug in answer to my own question though I know you can’t see that. It’s hot, I’m not motivated. I’m plagued with guilt over the things I’m not getting done. I haven’t been getting enough exercise. I did look at bicycle locks, in preparation for riding the glorious bicycle, but I didn’t buy one. Maybe racquetball? It’s this feeling of ennui, or just not being able to bring myself to bother, and I struggle against it, but not very hard, because, you know, it’s hot.
Yesterday’s target: 55 Today’s target: 54 Yesterday’s steps: 1806 Today’s steps: 3831. Yesterday food: yogurt with blueberries and granola, two peaches sliced, two scrambled eggs. Lunch: ham sandwich, half cup of cottage cheese. Dinner: Two hard-boiled eggs, 6 ounces of raspberries. Today food: Two hard-boiled eggs, yogurt with blueberries and granola. Lunch: ham sandwich, two peaches. Dinner: 6 corn chips, three small tortillas filled with grilled meats (La Parillada, one of our favorites), three tablespoons refried beans, three tablespoons rice.