Something about the weekends has really started to bum me out. I don’t know if it’s all the sleep I’m finally allowed to get (hey everyone I know who isn’t childless, sorry I am so awesome!) or the knowledge that I have nothing to be responsible for for two whole days, but I wake up on weekends and feel like the worst. I have nothing to write, nothing to call people about, and nothing to look forward to except the ability to take a nap later in the day if I want. This is starting to sound like a Cymbalta commercial, although I promise that I’m not clinically depressed. It’s just as if my body and brain are running on a cycle of work and rest, and because I can’t allow myself to be down enough to just fall asleep in the middle of the day when I’m at work, everything catches up to me the second I’m able to rest. Actually, that is depressing. My physical and mental engagement depending upon the job I hate? Cripes.
I’m made to feel slightly better by having finally written and submitted something to the writing workshop. I think it’s a little trite and too much like the last thing I submitted, but at this point, I’ll consider writing anything that isn’t one entire run-on sentence to be an accomplishment. Because otherwise, you know, I’m sitting on my couch watching Fat Actress and laughing to myself about The Cat having a dream that involves fighting, running, and growling, which is hilarious because in real life, The Cat is a) not active and b) not hostile enough to fight with anything that isn’t my ex-husband. Aside from the one incident where The Cat sideyed that bastard for half a second before biting the shit out of his hand, the most openly hostile act The Cat ever committed was peeing on my carry on bag the night before I left for the airport. I left so early in the morning that I didn’t notice it until I was in line at the gate, and even then, it was one of those pungent boy cat pees that’s hard to place at first, but then once you realize what you’re smelling, it crawls up your nostrils and into your brain and stays there for the entire four-hour flight.
And this is an example of what happens on my weekends, where I wake up mildly depressed, accomplish one very small thing while still wearing my pajamas at 2:30pm, and then end up writing about my cat. If I knew what I needed to feel better about life, please believe that I’d pursue it. The only thing I can think of right now is a dog, but until I’ve got a place that opens into the yard and cats that aren’t so lazy that they hover their fat asses somewhere in the vague proximity of the litter box before taking a dump, I’m mostly out of luck. Although I would really like to have a dog again. For several reasons, one of which is puppies and the other is that people are now just assuming that I’m a cat lady, and trying to tell them that no, really, seriously I swear, The Cat is totally more like a dog than a cat never works.
This whole thing will work itself out, I’m sure, but until then, you should know that any complimentary thing you say will likely be answered from my favorite Fat Actress line so far:
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And now why don’t you go fuck yourself.”