It does seem a shame to have not produced anything useful or thoughtful after having multiple, consecutive snow days under my belt. Unless Aunt Jemima, just-add-water pancakes count. They were good though.
It's so funny that when we are busy with school and work and family and love we fantasize about what we would do if we have the time, but when we have the time we don't do anything extraordinary with it. I now recognize that the business of the activities I jam my days with is just a buffer against the free time that scares the shit out of me. I know what I am afraid of too: it's the final discarding of the idea that I am destined for some kind of artistic greatness. My greatest art now consists of an occasional witty comment when talking on the phone with a friend. When I think, "had I enough balls" I would've could've should've gone to NYC for SNL or UCB.
I have recognized my need to fill my days with purported meaning for some years now, but can't help but continue to be busy. Although now that I finished grad school, my evening "business" consists of Biggest Loser, The Office, and SNL. When I have down-time, I feel some obligation to self-edify, create, write a novel, read Whitman and get deep. I see that much of this stems from arrogance; believing that I have something bigger to contribute, that I might positively affect others' lives if I simply apply myself. I'm nurse, so do get the occasional "you're my hero" comment which serves to stroke the ego and buffer the nagging feeling that I may have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Like the Tums to my acid reflux.
The truth is that I am an EveryGirl and not contributing anything particularly valuable to the mix. This truth becomes more acute in this era of over-sharing, where one feels that the opportunity is there; you just have to add talent and pop it in the YouTube microwave.
I am reluctant to even write, as what comes out is too akin to the super-introspective, me-me-me bullshit that childhood diaries and teenagehood journals are made out of. The thing is, that to get to the good stuff, I have to shave off the unsightly insecurities.
I'll admit it doesn't make for an interesting read. But I'm not making any promises here.
What a downer, like Debbie.
