I'm Having A Day.
I’m just having a day. One of those days where I’m so conflicted that I can’t even decide what to lounge around in, so I’ve ended up wearing a bathrobe over sweatpants and a long-sleeved purple shirt from the Gap which definitely has some sort of food stain on it. I know, go ahead and judge me. I’d judge me.
I should be overjoyed today. It’s been 3 months and 5 days since the kidney transplant surgery. My mom is doing great aside from the fact she’s still somehow bloated and her pants still don’t fit her. My dad begs to take her to eat at some bougie members-only club in downtown Wilkes-Barre that actually has good food where they can sit in an igloo. But then my mom cries that she has no pants that fit, her hair looks like shit from not going to the salon (too risky because of Covid), and that starts a whole to-do. First world problems for sure.
I haven’t had any complications from the surgery either (as far as I know). I’m able to work out, aka be a mermaid, drive, socialize, blah blah. And my parents are escaping this tundra frigidness to go to Florida, leaving me to my own devices at the condo. There’s nothing more that I relish than the freedom aloneness brings. No one to tell me to clean up the kitchen sink. No one to bitch if I didn’t make my bed. No one to argue with over which series to watch on Netflix. It’s absolute bliss. In fact, I have no idea what I’m going to do if I get into one of those “relationship” things where you live with your significant other. Maybe we’ll just live in a duplex or something and have convenient sleepovers. At the very least if I cohabitate with a boyfriend/husband/whatever, we need separate sinks in the master bathroom.
As usual, I digress. I’m having a day. Lately it’s always been “a day.” This former California girl isn’t used to the cold - California cold doesn’t go below 42 degrees. Apparently this past weekend in Santa Monica it was a solid 82 degrees out. I know this because my friends told me so. “OKAY,” I said to my friend Liza as she blabbered into the phone about how loose her shorts were on her (who the hell loses weight during Covid?). Shorts? If only.
So perhaps we can blame the cold for me having a day. Maybe it’s also the fact there is a voice, maybe even my own voice, continuously whispering, “What in the hell are you doing now with your life?” For months, the anxiety of an impending major surgery weighed on me to the point where I could barely function. Now that that event has passed… well, of course I have to find something else to be anxious about. Blaming that on being Jewish.
I had a phone call with a company located in another city. Another city that is not Los Angeles, but still a city where the sun shines. It’s too premature to think about the logistics of packing my bags up again, but of course it’s there in the back of my head because god forbid I just stay present like my therapist begs me to.
I’ve taken jobs before. They last 90 days, six months max before I burn out, ferociously needing to get out, or I get sacked. It’s not that I am a complete slacker. I just never feel in alignment with other peoples’ agenda and prefer to generate an income based on my own instead. Is that a terrible thing? I have maintained an amazing client for four years, so that at least says something I suppose. Just need more of them. And when I sit down to hustle and go get them, I freeze.
I go clean my room (take that, Mom and Dad). I schedule a mani-pedi. I catch up on the text message thread with my friends from Los Angeles where they’re discussing anything from all natural tampons to the state of Trump’s awful hair and make-up.
And then, there’s a force that nudges me back to my MacBook Air. I open a Chrome tab where my next working novel, West of the 405 is waiting for me. I cheat on building my “marketing career” for my little passion project, which may in fact go nowhere.
So that’s why I’m having a day. I’m so conflicted internally about where I should go, what I should do that I just end up staring into space, unable to declutter my thoughts.
I need the universe to send me a sign. I know I’m not meant to stay in good old Dallas, Pennsylvania, but that doesn’t exactly point me in a direction. Do I force myself to keep building a client list when all I want to do is write?
Do I get a “job” when what I really want to do is work independently?
I know. I know. First world problems. But you know what. If I were to feel at peace with myself, then I would have the energy and capacity to help real world problems.