So, as some of you (family, mandy…yep, that about rounds it out) know, i’ve been sort-of employed the past few months as a barista, and mostly not loving it. As I move further and further away from college, I seem to become better acquainted with the utter boredom and semi-depression that a learning fanatic experiences when doing absolutely nothing intellectual. Ever. I’ve been begging my mom to get me writing classes at The Loft, and finally she relented–if I wrote something in the next day, she would pay for a class. Frabjous day, etc. I woke up early, spent a solid thirty minutes (including email dawdling time) typing, and this is what I wrote.
(this is pretty much an exact representation of how i've been spending my days. complete with shiny blond hair and tabby cat. i swear)
The first day, it was exhilarating. After sixteen years of school, of deadlines, of waking up at five to frantically plunk out the last six pages of a religion paper due in three hours, the rush of an empty calendar and deadline-free days was thrilling. I slept until eleven, giddy over my lack of places to be. The weeks after followed similarly, sleeping in, taking an hour to slowly sip a mug of tea, catching up on every television show I had never before had a chance to watch. It’s important. I told myself. I need to breathe for a second! I’ve been working nonstop for sixteen years! With as little effort as possible, I got a part time job slinging chai for uptown hipsters and roving groups of Korean women in Juicy Couture tracksuits. Six hours here, four there. Nothing strenuous. Nothing that would interfere with my free time. I would spend hours languorously stretched across my bed, napping midday to recover from the exhausting effort of doing nothing. It was bliss.
Slowly, though, it lost its shimmer. The allure of watching three movies in a row on Netflix faded, until movies became a chore. With only a minimum wage paycheck, there was no possibility of inviting friends over for lavish dinners, of heading downtown to see a show, of taking that community ed cake-decorating class. My roommates, with their cheerful good natures and disposable incomes, became intolerable. Even reading a book seemed like an impossibly large commitment. Clothes piled on the floor. My unwashed hair was more bedraggled with each passing day. I wore the same socks for two weeks straight. Without a crystal meth addiction I’m not sure I can say I hit rock bottom, but I certainly fell a couple stories.
Then, my sainted mother agreed to pay for a writing class to get me off my arse if only, for the love of God, I would write something. So one quiet morning, shortly after Christmas, I sat at my computer and began to type, stopping only for a cup of tea. Anyway, I hope this is good enough, because I’d really like to be able to get out of the house for once.
