Because, in reality, unless utterly engrossed in a task, I am a lazy piece of shit. Most mornings, I sit on the train feeling sick for taking up so much valuable space and oxygen with my lumpy, messy, unfocused self. Distraction comes gratefully in the form of whatever book I am reading. And for twenty-five blissful minutes, I don't hate myself. The person I loathe most, thankfully, no longer exists, as I plunge into the world of another, worthy of this life that I so selfishly waste.
I know you think I am being too hard on myself. And I wish that were true. I would love to give myself a pass for watching television, when I should be cleaning; drinking, when I should be exercising; and feeling sorry for myself, when I should be thinking of others. Even now, this self-indulgent task of writing to you about my worthlessness, seems so pathetic that I almost want to delete it and write something witty and glowing about how much I love myself, and how grand life is.
Because the truth is, I really, really love my life. I just don't think I deserve it,
Wish you were here.
"I wonder how long I can keep pretending that I love wearing a pencil skirt and using words like 'memorandum.'" A real knowing laugh erupted out of me as I read this.
ReplyDeleteSo many people tell me I should love my job--I'm making such a difference! Don't I love going to work every day? No. I don't dread it, but I don't stand in the room beaming joy at my charges. In fact, the comment I hear most often is, "You look mad." Yeah, maybe I am. Maybe I'd rather be at Target right now or watching The Wire.
I want to embody Mary fucking Oliver and exclaim at the minutiae of beauty. The reality is I just want to go to the mall. We're all pieces of shit.
I love you. Let's take off on a Friday and fly to a place in the middle of the country and then fly out on Sunday. I'm serious. Nashville? NOLA? Montana?