My housemate is out of town for the weekend, so it’s just been me in this house that isn’t as big as the house I grew up in but feels as big as the house I grew up, because when it’s just me and my thoughts and no one else, space expands and time inverts–either goes too fast or drags on dedicatedly long.
And now it’s Saturday night–or Sunday morning–and my Friday to-do list is slipping into tomorrow. And interwoven with the V. Important Must Finish ASAP things, there are silly, trivial tasks like “iron your damn clothes.”
Okay. I have had IRON YOUR FREAKING CLOTHES on my weekly and daily to-do lists again and again and again since AUGUST. August. But I’m trying not to stress over this too much, because, come on, why am I going to iron that so-wrinkled-I-absolutely-cannot-wear-it-to-work dress and creased blouse and crinkled skirt when I have five student write-ups to complete, and six stories to critique, five-thousand words of my own to write, and a body to heal, and emails to reply to, and a bathroom to clean, and a windshield to replace, and a personal statement to write, and a mind to relax.
Ironing? It somehow always slips.
This afternoon, I gave up. I interviewed a charmer and sipped hot chocolate and considered doing his write-up right then and there but then said NOPE and pounded straight from the Admission Office to urgent care.
Turns out this past week was made all the more silly by my swollen ears and infected sinuses and now I’m on antibiotics (again again again again) and have been reprimanded that I didn’t come in sooner. Always reprimanded. Always told I should know better. Faulty immune system. Blood glitches. See the doctor sooner. Why didn’t you come in sooner? But I didn’t think coming in sooner was necessary, because aching head aside, I rocked this week. I spun through workshop, wrote some 10,000 new words, worked my two jobs, danced in the studio for six hours, plié plié plié, loved the days despite the pain.
And now it’s Saturday night. Sunday morning.
It’s nearing two am and I’m in that stage where I could get up and make oatmeal and milk out the late night, read, watch mist rise out of my humidifier, write about other small home appliances, or I could go to sleep. Tomorrow is the first day that doesn’t require I wake at seven (to an icebox of a room because my window is broken and Colorado is already occasionally dipping into the twenties). Tomorrow is the first day I can sleep past noon if I so desired, which I might desire, as it’s been too many days of running on four hours of sleep, which maybe is why I got sick in the first place. I need to sleep sleep sleep.
So maybe I will let myself stay in bed until noon. I don’t have to shuffle down to campus for work until late afternoon. And I’ve already finished the 5000 words due. The little things on my to-do list can wait. I owe it to myself to rest. Another packed week waits. Ignore the rhymes. It’s almost two. I seem to rhyme the later it gets.
Farewell. Think I may go sleep for ten hours and save clothes ironing for another day.