"through every inch of time and space"

Slept in, walked the dog, cleaned, went to the gym, bought bread, came home and cooked at least a third of all the things. (maple parsnip soup, unintentionally bland pumpkin mush and apple-miso tofu). And, when I list it out, it really doesn't seem or feel like I did anything. Things I could have made, but haven't yet: apple cake, apple bread, applesauce, butternut ginger soup, salad, something with all the goddamn peppers.

And now I've become cross and I can't put my finger on why. I had a good weekend, we got a lot of things done, a lot of things cleaned, we saw a lot of my favorite people. I've got cinnamon tea and a dog curled up on my feet. I've caught up on some of my email, I've put down the book I'm not enjoying, I've tried to watch some mindless tv.

I have all these stern conversations with myself, elaborate rules about what's okay to say, what's okay to ask, when it's okay to feel sad. The short answer: nothing, nothing, never. The long answer is, well, longer and the formula's nonsensical, but involves social media, low self esteem, unrealistic expectations and usefulness.

I fall into the trap of thinking that I just haven't found the right thing to say yet, or the right event to invite people to, and if I keep looking, keep churning over things, I'll be able to find it and then I'll never want for company or conversation. When Asshat left me, I was little other than a broken record, insisting if I'd found the right thing to say or do, I would have been good enough to keep, and it was my fault that I wasn't. I know more about myself now than I did then. If I haven't actually shaken off all the bits of that belief, I'm better at seeing where it cast shadows.

I over-identify with our cats, Frye in particular of late. If Light or I walk into a room, or try to approach her she flees in abject terror. If we startle her, she'll awkwardly combine terror and her desire for petting. But when we're still, and therefore safe, she's over-enthusiastic with her love, sprawling across keyboards and laps, pushing books out of my hands, heart-wrenchingly fantastic and annoying all at once. I feel like that, I fear being like that. (not the fantastic so much as the over-enthusiastic and annoying).

but but but. It's not a failure that I didn't see anyone today but my trainer, my dogwalker and my husband. It won't be a failure tomorrow if I don't see anyone but my coworkers, my therapist and my husband. There's no score to keep (despite my obsession with metrics) and I don't have to do all the things. (I'm not going to Louise Erdrich's reading tonight or Joanne Harris's tomorrow and probably not Leslea Newman's on Thursday. I am going to Oleana with Kilt and Canobie Lake with Hands and Hips and a study date with Light and my awesome extensionschool class.) It's not a failure if I'm not part of the vast callback network of twitter and it's okay to not be in motion. I'm not the sum of what I don't have.

"through every inch of time and space"

Slept in, walked the dog, cleaned, went to the gym, bought bread, came home and cooked at least a third of all the things. (maple parsnip soup, unintentionally bland pumpkin mush and apple-miso tofu). And, when I list it out, it really doesn't seem or feel like I did anything. Things I could have made, but haven't yet: apple cake, apple bread, applesauce, butternut ginger soup, salad, something with all the goddamn peppers.

And now I've become cross and I can't put my finger on why. I had a good weekend, we got a lot of things done, a lot of things cleaned, we saw a lot of my favorite people. I've got cinnamon tea and a dog curled up on my feet. I've caught up on some of my email, I've put down the book I'm not enjoying, I've tried to watch some mindless tv.

I have all these stern conversations with myself, elaborate rules about what's okay to say, what's okay to ask, when it's okay to feel sad. The short answer: nothing, nothing, never. The long answer is, well, longer and the formula's nonsensical, but involves social media, low self esteem, unrealistic expectations and usefulness.

I fall into the trap of thinking that I just haven't found the right thing to say yet, or the right event to invite people to, and if I keep looking, keep churning over things, I'll be able to find it and then I'll never want for company or conversation. When Asshat left me, I was little other than a broken record, insisting if I'd found the right thing to say or do, I would have been good enough to keep, and it was my fault that I wasn't. I know more about myself now than I did then. If I haven't actually shaken off all the bits of that belief, I'm better at seeing where it cast shadows.

I over-identify with our cats, Frye in particular of late. If Light or I walk into a room, or try to approach her she flees in abject terror. If we startle her, she'll awkwardly combine terror and her desire for petting. But when we're still, and therefore safe, she's over-enthusiastic with her love, sprawling across keyboards and laps, pushing books out of my hands, heart-wrenchingly fantastic and annoying all at once. I feel like that, I fear being like that. (not the fantastic so much as the over-enthusiastic and annoying).

but but but. It's not a failure that I didn't see anyone today but my trainer, my dogwalker and my husband. It won't be a failure tomorrow if I don't see anyone but my coworkers, my therapist and my husband. There's no score to keep (despite my obsession with metrics) and I don't have to do all the things. (I'm not going to Louise Erdrich's reading tonight or Joanne Harris's tomorrow and probably not Leslea Newman's on Thursday. I am going to Oleana with Kilt and Canobie Lake with Hands and Hips and a study date with Light and my awesome extensionschool class.) It's not a failure if I'm not part of the vast callback network of twitter and it's okay to not be in motion. I'm not the sum of what I don't have.