It’s Wednesday. Hump Day, as some people say, but no good humps for you today; only the metaphorical shitty ones. You cried in the shower today. You waited till you were under the water: got undressed, waited for the water to heat up, and then, you let yourself cry. And you couldn’t stop. But then you did seem to feel a bit better afterwards, having let it all out.
You couldn’t seem to leave the house today, not until the shower and the cry, after you’d been out of bed for 4 hours and done nothing but dick around, not being able to focus on anything but the endless feeds of pretty, meaningless bullshit on your phone. You had plans to get up at a “reasonable” hour, go to the gym, go to a coffee shop, make yourself write, but you and your husband got in an argument last night and you still felt pretty shitty about it. After he’d left for his kitchen training, and you’d gotten so fed up with the guilt of doing jack-shit, you convinced yourself that a hot shower would do you good, and you did go to the gym yesterday so clean and warm are preferable to dirty when the eventuality of a workout is yet to be determined.
You walk outside, heading to the laundromat, and although it’s freezing and windy as hell, the sun is shining bright and strong and you feel better just like that. And you remind yourself that you should get outside more often. It seems that, for you, home does not lend itself to productivity. But shouldn’t it? Or maybe it’s that a tiny studio-ish apartment with the only doors in the place being the ones you close to shit, and open to leave&enter. Maybe. Or maybe your powers of avoidance are enhanced in PJ’s and comfy couches with a husband who makes the coffee and brings you a cup in the morning. Although he won’t bring it to you in bed. Enticing you to get the fuck up, he leaves it on the coffee table. Himself an easy, early riser, he subtly, kindly hates your simple ongoing patterns of snoozing; not charmed by your ability to pass in and out of sleep with 5 stages of 9 minute snooze alarms. Why pretend? Why set the alarm for 9 when you know you’re not going to drag your ass out of bed before 10 at the earliest. But hey, goals.