I am bone-tired and plain wore out, as they say, two weekends in a row of go go go away from home. Lots of good people and adventures but ex-haust-ed. Today for lunch I closed my office door and sprawled out in my chair and dozed. And ate one small, measly apple from Trader Joe's. Today's Monday and it's been deluge-y and COLD, which was not supposed to happen, March 18. Three days before my grandmother's birthday heralds the start of spring, don't start with this winter crap again, got it pal?
I am tired and tucked into bed and I have clothes hung all over the place, every door and dresser is a drying rack (H&M doesn't like you to dry their garments in a dryer, apparently), and shoes are strewn and piles of books are peppered everywhere and I wonder if I'll ever get to read them all because, well, they take time, and I just keep buying them. Give me the days of curling up in a chair after school with my dog-eared paperbacks and reading 'til dinner because, well, someone else was making dinner. (Love you, Mom!)
I am sleepy and warm and tonight I mixed pizza dough with a mashed sweet potato and it ended up just sweet and orange enough (though a tad too thick, I'll need to fix that), and I put mozzarella and spinach and blue cheese on top and tried to eat slowly to savor but really, I wanted to jump this pizza's bones. And is it weird that I'm already excited about throwing chicken and mushrooms and green beans and chickpeas and other stuff in my crockpot in the morning and turning it on low and coming home to that delicious (hopefully) smell after work and having it be READY TO EAT? Seriously, crockpots are magic.
I am burrowing deeper into the covers and the Wildcats are getting pumped to head to Lexington to play Marquette on Thursday, and we keep getting all these upset plugs on TV and Twitter (my fave from Shane Ryan on Grantland, "I can't ignore 17 straight wins. They make a sort of weird bleating noise." Okay, dude.) and it's fun and golden to be in between dreams (as Jack Johnson would say) in that funny little human projection called prediction. Remember in '08 when there were little basketball hoops set up all over the Union and we had no idea what was coming? Dang. The other day I happened to sit next to a table of college freshmen girls and they talked loudly and giggled a lot and sounded certain and uncertain, confident and not-so-sure all at once and leaned on each other for advice, and I thought, gosh... I'm old? They're young? Maybe neither. (Since I still do all of those things with my friends now.) Maybe it's just how time flows and at the same time parks itself within the stay-the-same beauties of human experience. But it did remind me: I need (and miss) my girlfriends.
I am thisclose to turning off the light, and I'm starting to wonder about this mulling of mine, spurred on by fatigue but also with some kind of design, some purpose for these words. The ordinary-ness of life and yet the extreme changes we make to get to these places. Today I thought about ten years ago, "shock and awe," going to the Oak Grove Market with Mom after school. While she ordered ground beef and salmon, I craned my neck up to the television that showed bursts of odd violent light on a dark horizon laden with mosque silhouettes, the images all stamped with the garish all-caps of CNN as disembodied voices hurried to calculate, speculate, explain. That was this day, ten years ago. I remember it, cold and strange. And now I am here. How did that happen? Moving towards sleep, I hold that tension, the slickness and solidity of counting by a clock. And I realize yet again (yawning) that there's more to life than simply oogling over time, that it's these little moments that make a life and move us forward and that each night we burrow into the pillows, we have added more to our treasure, if only we would recognize it.