I have the impulse to write, wild and mischievous. The drudgery of the last few days has made me a bit stir-crazy, and ready to move forward.
(I am told you can hear my teeth grinding 1000 miles away.)
But last night I looked backward for a moment, reading of the plans I'd made for myself over the course of the last few months. Nothing has come to fruition. Nothing. It's no wonder that my frustration has peaked. Six months of treading water is not my idea of a good time.
I knew that this year would be rough. There's no going back.
My days are extremely full but that doesn't make them interesting. I don't care for the idea that instead of making plans, I'm marking obstacles and overcoming them.
In today's Wall St. Journal, Peggy Noonan wrote of the same disquiet that I noted a couple of weeks ago:
"I'll admit that I'm [throwing a party] as much as a morale booster as I am a sendoff for a couple we've known for many years. I really don't know the mood of the rest of the nation, but here behind the Orange Curtain, it's bad. Between the job losses, the fall of the housing market, threatened cuts in everything, that woman, everyone is just in a state. And there is a terrible sense that we are all waiting for something. Armageddon, maybe.....Even the kids are feeling this. Not pleasant."
We often laugh (in something akin to disgust) at the TV ads: take a little pill. As Ms. Noonan rightly points out, there is no little pill for this ailment. But I find positive action, even if it's pulling weeds, helps.
Obstacles. Postponement. Enough already. I don't squander, but I'm ready for some irrational exuberance.
Go listen to some good music: "Whatever's Left" from the album Final Straw by Snow Patrol. And yeah, tomorrow's P-Day. Then it's done.