Note to Self:

There is something therapeutic about writing--I've always known this, as I inevitably turned to paper and now my laptop whenever in a melancholy mood. Lately, I've also felt the urge to write to stave away the fearful feeling that my life is futile, that I'm getting old. It's not my age that bothers me exactly--though the tentative beginnings of fine lines on my face does make me lean in for a closer look, then back away again because ignorance truly is bliss. Rather, it's the thought that I am getting older and there's a heck of a lot left on my "to-do" list, things I've always envisioned accomplishing while young--actually young, not just at heart. And so I write because, A) writing lets me "get it out," relatively painlessly and without judgement; B) I like writing and therefore feel a little happier having finished some little ditty that amuses me, and C) there are these secret hopes and desires that have been festering since I was a child--that I might write and publish some day, you know, just for fun. My writing also bleeds into the lyrical category, accompanied by music, sung by an oddly familiar voice.

With these things in mind, my 26 years seem to stretch out in front of me, languidly, but too much so, and I feel like giving them a nice quick kick, a proper scolding for being so relaxed. So what if I cry...

Because it's not just enough to have ideas--I know this. It seems my fatal flaw is a lagging volition--keeping my feet moving. Children's author and illustrator Tommy de Palo once wrote, "First one foot, now the other." This is the best kind of mantra for me. Swimming the English Channel takes some paddling along the way, stepping on the moon means miserably unrecognizable meals , and much as I would like to believe that for three easy payments of $19.95, my life can be changed, there's always the shipping and handling.

There you have it, or rather, there I have it, since this is a "Note to Self." The shadows of my previous melancholy this week are in hiding for the moment under a splendidly sunny sky today. My skin is happy, my fingers warm. I will refer to these musings from October to March.

"First one foot, now the other." I'm on the pavement now, and I'm walking.

French Toast.

This morning I woke up before my alarm rang, but didn't get up because I didn't want to get up, even though I've always heard it is best to get up when you awake naturally the first time. Thursday is a day of rebellion for me, having fought through the week thus far with a smile, sometimes slung precariously on my face, but there all the same.

Thursday is a day when I am both tired and the most apathetic because I am tired and no longer care as much as I would under more healthy circumstances about being so unhealthy. In addition, with Friday around the corner, I feel invincible to any consequences my apathy will provoke. Such morbid musings are common on a Thursday and today is Thursday.

These were my preliminary thoughts this morning as I lay in bed, attempting to ignore, most rudely, my bedside clock. I then thought about wardrobe options for the day, but that proved too rigorous at that hour, and was saved for my shower, a time when I struggle to come up with all kinds of solutions to life's many difficulties while hot water beats on my head. Lately topics have ranged from balancing my budget, last minute lesson plans, whether or not I should shave, and today, what to wear. Success rate is ok, given my state of mind, but only if the water is quite hot.

Finally, face, hair, and clothing taken care of, I meandered out to the kitchen, drawn magnetically to the next station in my morning sequence: French Press Coffee Device, because morning will stay morning without it. As I listened to the kettle simmering and the faint hum of two overhead fluorescent tubes, toast began to sound delicious and that, possibly mixing subconsciously with the blessed title "Fresh Press" evoked a hell of a good idea: French Toast. I only eat French Toast about two times a year because I only think of it two times a year, and it always remains a randomly novel food choice that both excites me and makes me feel creative. A quick whipping of eggs, salt, and pepper, a dousing of sourdough in said mellow elixir, momentary sizzling in the pan, enter butter and maple syrup = happy me.

Strange how something so inconsequential should make me feel so tickled. All of Thursday's depressive density meant nothing. Apathetic again? Sure, about Thursday's nonsense. But oh so optimistic about my French Toast.

Yes, please, thank you.

Fetus.

While sitting on this Sunday morning, distant memories of a blog I once use to keep up meandered through my mind. Oh that one! Yes, this one, six months since. Today, my brain feels the biological bursting of six months of incubation. I'm a little worried about what I will find in here, but I'm going to investigate and figure it out...