Mistakes were made
February 5, 2012 § Leave a comment
Lately, I’ve been screwing up like it’s going out of style. Things as inconsequential as skipping choir practice all the way up to almost losing my financial aid and extinguishing any hope of graduating, however faint. I am procrastinating, sleeping in, overspending, slacking off. I haven’t run in a week (blame my knees!), I keep forgetting to invoice things at work, I’m behind on car payments, and I’m not drinking enough water.
Also, let’s just agree that $3.75 for a cocktail is a dangerous bargain. I may never be able to look the bouncer at the Cove Cocktail Lounge in the eye again.
Is it just the typical midquarter slump? Has all my vim and vigor just up and run out of steam, leaving me with 12 pages about Dido and Lavinia to patchwork together into a BA* and a sinkful of dishes I will leave to get crusty and gross? I hate to be one of those whiny nascent adults (though I fear that ship has sailed) who blames the nebulous difficultness of being 22 for leaving their dreams unachieved, as if there’s some external factor playing Sisyphus and continually setting us back. I like to think that I’m always game to dust myself off and get back to kicking life in the teeth. I can make plans and spreadsheets and shopping lists and flash cards and will not take no for an answer!
But, you know, sometimes this part of life is hard. Sometimes you slip. And then the next thing you know you’re jetlagged and groggy and behind on everything and sobbing on the phone to the bursar’s office. The thing is, though, sometimes every part of life is hard, right? Like, eventually I
will may get a handle on paying rent and matching my socks and not sleeping til 3, but then I will have things like mortgages and health insurance and early-onset-osteoarthritis to worry about. It keeps on coming.
So. I haven’t had it too hard, really, and I’ll recover, and I’ll navigate other things, and no one will care that I didn’t study enough for my Old English midterm or that I took a little longer to write my fifth novel. I will post little whingeing essays to a little blog in the great void of the internet, take a nap, eat extra dessert, and things will not completely crack into fragments.
In conclusion, go read Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” and know that if I, of all people, am posting poetry, that I am serious about it.
*or BS, amirite