I haven’t been able to write much lately. Not because I don’t like writing (I don’t think) but because I’ve turned into this lazy monster that would rather spend my days lounging like Jabba the Hutt than doing anything remotely like moving forward. Wait, scratch that. I don’t think I would rather spend my days as a modern day Jabba, it’s just the way things have been turning out.
Every time I manage to get something down on paper and then go through the extra steps of posting it onto my blog I feel like I have conquered Everest. I float through the day as if I have done something in life that no one else could ever do. I sit and wait for the pings to start flowing through my telephone notifications letting me know someone is reading my words and I bask in the knowledge that I have created something. But those times are few and far between now, because I haven’t been able to write.
I’d be more worried if I thought that this was something that just applied to my blog and the writings within it, but it has become much more than that. I can’t be bothered to hang my winter coat up in the hall closet anymore. I just pile my shit on to these tiny little hooks that are really just to be used for backpacks and purses. It looks like I have a pile of garage sale clothes hovering against my wall. Whenever I need to get anything, I first have to pile everything on the floor (just to get to it) and then I have to put it all back. Kind of goes against the grain of being lazy, but there it is. I would still rather do that than hang up my coat properly.
Last night, I got back from an aqua aerobics class and tossed my bag of wet items to the bottom of the stairs to the basement. Didn’t matter that they were soaking. Didn’t matter that they were on my carpet. Didn’t matter that I needed to get things washed up for the next time I went to class. I wasn’t going downstairs. Don’t want to put in the effort and unless there’s one of those cool electric chair machines attached to the wall that I can then ride down to the bottom–it isn’t going to happen. Besides, I know how my hubby operates. They wouldn’t stay down there too long.
I have one pile of paperwork from my ten year old that has physically attached itself to the kitchen table. Probably the workings of some stray grape jelly, but I sometimes think it’s because it’s been there so long it has literally melted onto the wood. For some reason I have managed to clean every space around the table except for that one pile and it’s starting to kind of drive me crazy. I’ll stare and stare that that stuff and will even put in the time to calculate what goes where and how much effort it will take. And then I just walk away and never think of it again (until ten minutes later). It’s still sitting there, mocking me, as I write this on my computer.
In the kitchen the bananas and apples lay upon thin layers of toast crumbs and household dust. No time to grab a bowl and put them neatly in the corner. Besides, they’re quite handy as camouflage for the candy bowl (yes, these get a bowl) and stray bags of Hostess doughnuts. The food scale lies abandoned next to the containers of sugar and flour that have been sitting for two years (I don’t have time to cook, yo) and a dilapidated library card nestled among a pile of comic book cards my kid drew one day, and then never looked at again. It’s kind of scary how much he is starting to act like me. Poor guy.
My night stand still holds a receipt from two weeks ago, my dvd’s are piled on my shelves instead of in my shelves, my desk is a haphazard collection of various device wires and random folders that hold delicate insurance and bank information. My toothpaste tube lays upon strands of hair that flew off my head when I used the hair dryer. It bothers me to see these things, but I just don’t want to deal with it.
You’re probably thinking that I’m kind of an asshole. And you wouldn’t be wrong. I just try to keep that part of myself to myself, but, let’s face it, I can’t keep that personality trait inside that long. I’m a volcano always ready to erupt. I know that I am depending on the innate traits of my hubby to cover me during my laziness episodes (and it’s a perk that I didn’t even know I had until way after we moved in together), and I know that I am not being the best person I can be. But I am trying. Really, I am.
Because today I didn’t leave my (other) hairbrush on the bed instead of taking it to the bathroom and putting it in the drawer. I grabbed the Clorox wipes and cleaned off all of the counters in the kitchen (however, I didn’t put them back where I got them). I managed to hang up a sweater and a jacket into the hall closet (but not the coat, damn it), and I took the five extra steps to put my water bottle into the dishwasher to make sure it got clean. I went down to the basement (yay, me!) and grabbed some bags of chips to put in the boy’s lunch. I even managed to carry a bag of clothes that had been sitting in my room for at least two months to my car so that they could be donated. I even wrote this freaking story! So, I am trying. But it is almost never easy.
So now I’ll finish this story, put the computer back at my desk and actually plug it into the wall (it’s awesome when I can write something and not be under the constant pressure of being told I only have 9% power). I will rinse the plate that held my morning breakfast and I will put the place mats back in the drawer. I will even work on packing myself a lunch for work. Just don’t ask me to move those papers. I really don’t think I have it in me.