I apologize for the massive gap in my blog writing schedule. Somehow, between work and play and endless romantic comedy- and sitcom-watching on Netflix, I let my writing habits become non-habits, and I ended up here...not having published anything online in a while. (If it makes you feel better, my novel has fallen to a similar fate. I haven't looked at it since Spring Break. Which was in March. Two months ago.)
A few other habits have fallen by the wayside, too. I already wasn't walking/running because of my ankle, but determined to stay in shape, I was doing 200 ab exercises every other day for a while. Which pretty much stopped as soon as I got to the beach. I was also cooking for myself at some point in the past, but honestly, I can't remember the last time I used the stove. I even stopped going to sleep at my normal obnoxiously-reasonable bedtime of 9:30. Because I just can't take going to sleep at the same time as an eight year old anymore.
On Wednesday, I woke up from a dream in which I had given birth to a rather large baby (painlessly) on a Sunday and wandered the school on a Monday looking for a sub...for that day and the twelve weeks following. Apparently, I hadn't set up any kind of maternity leave. Apparently, I hadn't known I was pregnant until there was a three-month-old coming out of me.
While my therapist is going to have a field day with that dream and its potential meanings, I woke up thinking one thing: God almighty, it needs to be summer already. Of course, I then spent the better part of my teeth-brushing that morning also thinking about what I would do if I really did have a baby that way, and whether or not someone can really not know they're pregnant, and wondering at what point I give up on the co-parenting ideal and adopt a kid on my own.
Because I can get some pretty serious thinking done in two minutes.
Or maybe I just brush my teeth too long.
Or maybe I should just get back to the story.
Last Saturday night, while laying on an air mattress in my parents' spare bedroom (slash workout slash craft room) as it poured like the dickens outside, I came to the realization that I don't have that one friend that I can call at any time and who would drop everything and do something with me. Maybe a lot of people don't have that friend (because they have a significant other for that?), but I had several of that friend in college, and since I've moved back to New Orleans, I've always relied on my roommates to keep me company on boring, rainy nights. And now that I live alone (and/or in my parents' spare bedroom on AirBnB weekends), I have to rely on my cat, who is not as good of a conversationalist as you think he'd be. For all the whining and meowing he does in the morning when he wants me to feed him, he's particularly uninterested in extended contact with me most of the time. Which is why I love cats. And also why I need human interaction.
In the end, I decided two things: (1) I need to find another perpetually single woman in New Orleans to be my best friend until we both meet our dream guy at the exact same time, and (2) I should get out more. I mean, I'm an extrovert. Being alone for large swaths of time has never been an ideal situation for me. So, in addition to attempting to be more open to events going on around the city, I emailed a few places about volunteer opportunities. The one that looks most promising is a nursing home in my neighborhood. Because I think I could benefit from having someone in my life old enough to have no filter and no tolerance for short-sighted bullshit. Sometimes the truth is more palatable when it's wrapped in wrinkles.
Of course, I emailed them barely more than a month before I leave the country and spend three weeks in Quebec City speaking French and contributing my savings to the Canadian economy.
Did you know that the Canadian dollar is only worth 77 American cents? It's like a built-in 23% discount (I have no idea if I did that math right). I'm considering just packing two sets of clothes and revamping my wardrobe when I get there. Then again, you should probably take my considerations with a grain of salt. Other things I've considered recently include:
- Having every person I know set me up on a date with someone they know (and then writing a book about how badly it goes)
- Moving to California and risking earthquakes, wildfires, and people who reek of B.O. and weed to escape the Neverland of "lost boys" that is New Orleans (and then realizing California might not be my best move for that)
- Purchasing the school/large plot of land across the street from my house and developing it (with all of the millions of dollars I don't have)
- Getting knocked up by a kind, wealthy soul so that I can afford to raise a baby and not have to worry about whether or not I want to be with the father forever (and then realizing money isn't the only thing keeping me from attempting motherhood)
Regardless of what I pack, I'm really pumped for the summer. Three weeks in Canada to get my French fluency back, maybe a weekend in San Diego at the beach, time with friends and family and books and books and books. Who knows? Maybe I'll finish my novel revisions and work on getting it published. Maybe I'll start another novel. Maybe I'll finally tackle my backyard. Maybe I'll finally find that perpetually single best friend that's also on a teacher schedule and doesn't mind that I'm ditching her for three-plus weeks to go do fun things somewhere else, even though she'd never leave me.
That's what I love most about summer: potential.
Also: not working.
Welcome back. I missed your voice!
ReplyDelete