I am blogging horizontally from bed with an EcoMug of hot coffee resting on my not quite proverbial bosom. Out of my window I see a wintry mix falling, and when I stop typing I can hear waves crashing down on the bay. Also, my space heater's on high at my right elbow. A good Saturday morning, yethinks?
You know, I had imagined I would accomplish so much on this year off. After all, when will I ever have this much free time again? The year would draw to a close with me feeling more relaxed, confident, capable, fluent in eight or nine non-Romance languages, with so much of my free time dedicated to serving my community that I would only manage to pee five times a day, one time less often than the average person. (Somehow in this fantasy I would not acquire a bladder infection.)
Now, at its halfway point, I am feeling a touch defeated. Most days after work I collapse in front of a B movie. I haven't learned to cook a damn thing. I'm a terrible correspondent. I still can't think of anything to say in casual conversations. Learn to flirt? Forget about it. My laziness begets boredom, my boredom begets grumpiness. (Sorry, Agent Yellow!)
Maybe I had unreasonable expectations for some sort of cucoonlike transformation that was never in the realm of possibilities. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. Maybe I'm being too easy on myself. Who knows? I think I've stopped believing in some sort of pre-eminent ledger in the sky.
Maybe I'm reaching the age where it's more energy efficient to accept one's shortcomings, in a sort of graceful surrender, than to remain in constant battle against them. I just can't shake this odd feeling that I'm running out of time.