Eh. Feh. Weh.
I’m guilt-blogging. That’s right. The only reason I’m typing is because I feel badly that I haven’t typed for awhile. And to whom do I feel badly? No one in particular. Just a sort of ephemeral guilt. Like Isadora Duncan’s scarf.
With C gone to the hinterlands of Utah, I’ve been on my own now for about a week, and I would say, unequivocally, that I’m doing okay. The cats and I creep around the house searching for food and entertainment. Is it a coincidence that I signed up for an all-you-can-eat exercise buffet? Nope.
Left to my own devices, I would happily eat the same meal days in a row. There’s a head of broccoli that’s mocking me from the drawer in the fridge, but I’m convinced I’ll get to it. Probably when it’s reduced to a pool of brackish green water, but that’s life, broccoli. Suck it up.
I’m reduced to thinking thoughts like: I should brush my teeth. Teeth feel fuzzy. Nah. Too far away.
Or: Are my contacts still in? Well, are they? Oh. No. I’m wearing my glasses. Oh.
Olivia just stumped past looking unimpressed. That’s a cat’s best expression, I think. Just complete and utter SO WHAT.
Tonight my neighbor came over with her little daughter N, who has just deciphered walking, and we sat on the bed and watched N roll around and throw herself into the comforter. At one point, N held out the corner of her blankie and rubbed it gently on my cheek. Soft.
I watched a movie last night that made me all depressed. Then I watched Contact to cheer myself up. Nothing like a little glimpse into the cosmos to feel less alone. Ha, ha! Jodie Foster in space! Ha, ha!