So much to do
It's been one of those weeks. One of those weeks in which a friend calls and I have to tell her I'm sorry, but I'm booked every day/night this week and can we hang out sometime after the next ten days? Yikes. I don't like being this busy. This busy means I see the very handsome boyfriend infrequently at best. We just had a date last night after over a week of being on separate coasts/finishing our final classes. This busy means the writing is not progressing apace. This busy means laundry accumulation.
The good news is that I'm going on mini-holiday to belatedly celebrate the very handsome boyfriend's birthday. I'm looking forward to escaping my everyday life and swapping it for something more novel and (let's hope) relaxed. Plus, part of the trip involves falconry! That could help with the writing. I've had a recent fascination with animals as characters/narrators. And this time I'll remember to bring my notebook (which I forgot last weekend at reunion). There's nothing worse than being somewhere without access to paper (or pen).
That reminds me that as a child I thought families that didn't have lots of loose paper in their "junk drawer" were strange. If they had to rip a page from the telephone book to jot down notes I thought they were crazy. It's the same way I feel about people who tell me they don't read for pleasure. Sure, they exist. But how? No, really, how?
Okay, this post has turned my mood around. I went from stress to childhood memory to gratitude that in the next 24 minutes I can take myself out in the sunshine and read during lunch. Thank you blog.