Limbo

What gives, A? Truth be told, I hate when you don't write for days. But I guess that's my issue. I'll hear from you soon enough.

Last night I got home from school and did nothing. I watched TV, then when it was time to turn lights on, I did--but only the lamp next to my end of the couch. It was enough light, combined with the TV, for me to get around and read a little too. I had cheese and crackers and pepperoni for dinner, not hungry enough or energetic enough to bother with anything else, and as much as I wanted to finish my book, my eye lids got heavy around 10, so I went to bed with a few pages left for the morning.

Indeed I finished reading the book over coffee this morning, and now--at noon-- I'm writing with a Bloody Mary. I have no plans for today and have no idea what I want to do. Start a new book and hibernate? Get dressed and go out? The nice thing is I'm caught up cleaning (the best part of having company over in the middle of the week is having a clean place on the weekend) and have no projects hanging over my head. I'm not sure the last time I felt this way.

Starting in November I guess life somehow revolved around the holidays--getting ready for them, getting through them, getting over them--and now it's life back to normal. Only it doesn't feel normal. It feels like there must be some commitment lurking around the corner, something I'm forgetting to do. Like I'm in some temporary limbo. I feel like I should either be doing something or rebelling against doing something, claiming some time to myself between commitments and choosing to be a recluse for a day. This weekend I can hibernate without a storm or an excuse, and I'm not sure I'm good with that. This weekend anyway. Yet I don't really want to make plans either. This, Amanda, is what I refer to as not being able to get out of my own way.

I'll let you know how things work out.

Love,
B