Do I look shorter? I feel shorter. And dog-tired. Not from working, but from shirking. I haven’t so much as lifted a finger lately. Therefore, I’m staring straight into a growing mountain of drudgery (dishes and laundry and vacuuming, etc.) and all I want to do is crawl in bed and close my eyes. At least then I won’t have to look at the overwhelming mess.
I did make some unexpected progress this morning, I replaced the empty cardboard tube with a new roll of toilet paper. That was encouraging, that burst of energy. It was also short-lived. The effort sapped my strength for everything but making coffee. However, the kitchen is utter pandemonium — dirty dishes and crusty Stouffer’s trays, sticky countertops — so I drank it in the dining room. In there, I’m only in danger of being crushed by tall, tippy stacks of papers and magazines, unopened junk mail and hard copies of posts.
What has gotten into me? Why have I let things slide like this? Normally, I’m a neat freak, emphasis on freak, so this is completely out of character. Should I be worried? Or is this, maybe, possibly, a good sign? Perhaps I’m becoming more comfortable with disarray? You think?
It snowed on Friday, you know. Snowed. In October. I’d been teetering on the edge of despair for weeks, white-knuckled and tense, but hanging tight. Then, shooooom, billions of snowflakes fell out of the sky and, @%$#, that did it. I let go and toppled straight into depression. So, yeah, I’ve let myself go. I’m in the same baggy-kneed sweatpants, I haven’t showered, I’m eating ice cream out of the carton, and I’m hiding from the world. Plus, the place is a dump.
One more day of this and, trust me, I’ll run screaming for the vacuum cleaner and Clorox wipes. Being compulsive does have its upside.
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