When I think back into the not so distant recesses of mind and look at a 6 month odyssey that brings me to the present... I feel heavy. It's an interesting and uneasy feeling.
Last night I was at my office working late. I wanted to catch up on some work that I pushed back because of a day full of trying to get my gas line reconnected. Speaking of which, it almost didn't happen. I had to get my fingers dirty, yet again, and help the plumber guy connect the gas pipe. It was a frustratingly simple task. He was ready to quit... me... not so much. I had been waiting two months for this.
Anyway, so I'm at my desk and I look out the window to the apartment in the building across the street and I see the plants-on-the-window-sill-cooks-pasta-with-meatsauce-girlfirend-smokes-cigarettes-likes-to-watch-the-news-guy on his bed reading a book.
As I worked, he read.
I said to myself... mmmm... leisure reading. He probably came home, made his pasta, and said to himself “what, oh what, am I going to do with my time?... how about that Oprah Book Club best seller novel on my nightstand?" He doesn't have drywall to buy, or a kitchen to plan, or Bo jangling contractors to track down... at least he doesn't look like he does.
I can't think back to a time when I didn't have something to do.
It's exhausting. I like reading... why can't I curl up and flip back the pages of a plotline laced with intrigue, suspense, and geopolitical "strategery?"
Why?... because I got drywall hang.