the weather report
…I mean, it’s all right, everything’s fine. It’s Saturday so I am allowed to eat anything and not work or exercise (but I miss the orderliness of working days, so I will at least go running tonight). For company I have a man taking a four-hour nap and two rats trying to fold into each other in the world’s most compact rat ball. I fill a glass with cereal (not the healthy kind, the kind with chocolate in it, but it’s whole and high in fiber anyway) and don’t notice it crunching away. I miss writing, but when I start, I miss the point. I like the font however, so I continue.
…It’s all right, we’re good, we’re on an upward trend, we’re teaching ourselves good habits. Not on Saturdays, obviously, on Saturdays we are allowed anything. Even though that makes it so much harder to make peace with the fact that on Sundays we aren’t. What Sundays are, they are penance for the excess of the weekend. There is always something unpleasant to do on a Sunday: work, chores, or bi-weekly grocery shopping where they haven’t yet restocked the vegetable aisle.
…Still, I’m managing, and even the anxiety is not that bad these days. Not that I have nothing to be anxious about or that when I don’t have anything, that I don’t invent things to be anxious about. You know how someone may accidentally hurt your feelings, then apologize, and you forgive them, but the hurt remains somewhere, like indistinct heartburn? The same happens to me when I think of money, even when there’s enough, and exercise, even when I’ve been very good.
…Is it true that when a love affair (such an old-fashioned word in this hegemony of ‘relationships’) ends, it takes something away with it? The end of my marriage took away my ability to make good Turkish coffee. So what, we have a coffee machine now. The next affair took away my ability to believe my own worth as reflected in the eyes of the other. Through no fault of anyone’s, or so I choose to believe. This current one brought that back anyway. No luck with the coffee though.
…I wish I were the kind of person that goes to botanical gardens with a sketchbook. Or the kind of person with a theatre membership. Or a limited-intelligence mall-dressing suburb-dwelling ambitionless pre-planned-life-executing kind of person. Some kind of a happier human being, the kind that doesn’t feel restless and brimming with sadness when it really is perfectly all right.