On resolve.
I guess I don't write anymore because I feel as though I'm lacking an audience, not only of external bodies, but also of myself. My inner retrospection is no longer useful for me and my life is now so organized and simplified (or so I think?) and coherent, really, that words on paper are of less use to me.
I am in my cycle of 9 to 5 (or 9:06 - 4:46 most days, actually) and in the evenings, I commute home in my Jetta and I walk in the door to find my love playing with our cats. Our cat and kitten, to be specific. Aria is usually lying on her cardboard perch by the large living room windows and Scout had been sleeping somewhere, cozied, until the unmistakeable click of the front door gives him reason to stretch out his paws and race towards the visitor. And of course, it is me. And I call out, "I'm home!" to my love and he responds with a "Hi!" or a "Hey." or some muffled noise from behind the office door.
And most nights, I am taking off my jacket and checking the time because I have such limited time before I get to: a. a volunteer meeting; b. a work-related meeting; c. an ultimate frisbee game; d. a hot yoga class; e. the gym; f. random social activity with friends or g. some combination of the above.
And so I enjoy the 24 or 43 or 66 minutes of downtime before the next activity and then I am putting my jacket back on and leaving the house again and I am off to go do what it is that we do.
And I could use more work clothes since these are dated and slightly baggy in places with my having lost weight and all in 2012. And I could use a lesson on make-up since my blush always seems to be too little or too much. But at least I've learned how to curl my hair the way I like it and I've found a concealer that works for me, so without becoming too high-maintenance, I am, at the least, becoming a more beautiful version of me.
And eventually, I'll return home and I'll talk to my love and my cats will step lightly on top of my chest and find a niche to curl up in. And I'll find myself sleepy and the clock will read 11:48 and I'll decide that it's time for bed and drag myself upstairs to the bedroom.
We are in a routine. We are living life! We are professionals. (Are we?) We are the predictable post-university experience, right here, in the flesh, as expected, yes, we are.
And I imagine, as most do, that one day there will be a proposal, and a wedding of some sort, and then pregnancy and children and my life will unfold as all lives unfold and it will probably be all so predictable.
But we'll see what happens next. My life could change at any moment. If I decide A is not to be my life partner. If I fly to Australia and start a new life for myself. If I find out I am infertile. If I change careers. My life can be anything I make of it, but right now it's predictable is as predictable does.
Over 'n out.
I am in my cycle of 9 to 5 (or 9:06 - 4:46 most days, actually) and in the evenings, I commute home in my Jetta and I walk in the door to find my love playing with our cats. Our cat and kitten, to be specific. Aria is usually lying on her cardboard perch by the large living room windows and Scout had been sleeping somewhere, cozied, until the unmistakeable click of the front door gives him reason to stretch out his paws and race towards the visitor. And of course, it is me. And I call out, "I'm home!" to my love and he responds with a "Hi!" or a "Hey." or some muffled noise from behind the office door.
And most nights, I am taking off my jacket and checking the time because I have such limited time before I get to: a. a volunteer meeting; b. a work-related meeting; c. an ultimate frisbee game; d. a hot yoga class; e. the gym; f. random social activity with friends or g. some combination of the above.
And so I enjoy the 24 or 43 or 66 minutes of downtime before the next activity and then I am putting my jacket back on and leaving the house again and I am off to go do what it is that we do.
And I could use more work clothes since these are dated and slightly baggy in places with my having lost weight and all in 2012. And I could use a lesson on make-up since my blush always seems to be too little or too much. But at least I've learned how to curl my hair the way I like it and I've found a concealer that works for me, so without becoming too high-maintenance, I am, at the least, becoming a more beautiful version of me.
And eventually, I'll return home and I'll talk to my love and my cats will step lightly on top of my chest and find a niche to curl up in. And I'll find myself sleepy and the clock will read 11:48 and I'll decide that it's time for bed and drag myself upstairs to the bedroom.
We are in a routine. We are living life! We are professionals. (Are we?) We are the predictable post-university experience, right here, in the flesh, as expected, yes, we are.
And I imagine, as most do, that one day there will be a proposal, and a wedding of some sort, and then pregnancy and children and my life will unfold as all lives unfold and it will probably be all so predictable.
But we'll see what happens next. My life could change at any moment. If I decide A is not to be my life partner. If I fly to Australia and start a new life for myself. If I find out I am infertile. If I change careers. My life can be anything I make of it, but right now it's predictable is as predictable does.
Over 'n out.