Blogging topics are always tough, unless you want to talk about politics or abortion or Justin Biener. Beiber. Weiner. Whatever. It’s a good thing I’m so self-focused I just talk about myself.
Speaking of myself…
Oh. Bad transition.
So..what’s been happening here as I begin the new novel in my life…anxiety. Yep that about covers it. ANXIETY. I probably should take Valium, or at least give up coffee. Giving up coffee would be a good start, but I have this sneaky suspicion that if I give up caffeine, I may spontaneously combust and/or take uncontrollable naps. Narcolepsy, people. That’s what I mean.
Why the anxiety? I’m moving to my new home. I honestly thought this would be a smooth, delightful transition but it’s stressful. I’m floating in some nether world of no-home-ness. I have all my cooking supplies at the new house, and all my food at the old. My computer is at the old, my internet access is at the new. My furniture is at the old, my specter self is at the new. On top of that I’m teaching, taking care of kiddos, practicing yoga (not really), obsessing, not dating (but dreaming of dating), and trying to rewatch all of Battlestar Galactica by Friday.
Why? Why do I give myself impossible deadlines? Because I’m a freak of nature. And it keeps me sane.
I did have a curious thing occur while walking around on my own in my empty house. I saw the ghost of the person I thought I’d be. She was choosing paint with her husband, and then they were in the master bedroom, and she was wearing a bandana and coveralls…because when you paint, aren’t you supposed to wear that kind of outfit? And they were laughing. And then he came over and he kissed her and she told him to get back work. And then they did. And I imagine they made love in every empty room of the house.
Of course, my reality was a bit different. I turned on the 80’s Weekend music, tried to get the paint can open. It was stuck. Cursed having to do it on my own, then got it open. Then I started painting. By myself. Quietly. It was sad and not-sad. And I was wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans. I admit, I wanted to cry a little. I always thought that I’d share my dream home with someone I loved, who loved me, but real-life novels are not like books: they are rarely predictable.
Later, my sister came over. We sang to the radio, we chatted, we high-fived (just once) and then spent waaaaay too long eating at a Mexican restaurant while drinking a gigantic Margarita for Two. It was not the life or the moment I envisioned, but you know, this real life, although way different from my ghost life, has its beauty too.
And my room? It’s earthy awesome. Perfect for me to cocoon up in…and eventually….cocoon up with someone else too. Just, you know, not my sister.