See that lovely picture to the left? That’s me. Between work and insomnia, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and, Edna St. Vincent Millay to the contrary, I am not making a lovely light. I’m making a tired, bedraggled dim little smudge of of an almost-burnt-out bulb kind of light.
The major filings are all behind me, though, and there are only a few more still to come — and none, thankfully, as urgent. When I was in my 20s, I had a lot more stamina for this type of thing. It wasn’t just that I was some (mumble, mumble) years younger, it was also that I had no other demands on me. No teenagers, no exchange students, no husbands, no aged Moms, no darling dogs. It was all about me, me, me — and my work.
I miss those selfish days a great deal, but I don’t regret them. Tired and grumpy as I am now, I’m a much nicer person than I was then. Back then, after a childhood of being odd-man out (just making an observation, not trying to be yet another in the parade of needy victims PC victims), I was all sharp angles and attacking blades. Verbally, I was the maven of “I’ll insult you before you can insult me.”
Now, except when I vent against political, religious, or media figures who I believe are endangering my children’s future, I’m a very nice person. When I’m sarcastic, I make sure it’s broad and not mean. I’m not embarrassed by my own unkindness. Thus, much as I miss the luxury of selfishness, I don’t miss being selfish.
But back to my original point: If I manage to peel myself off the wall tonight, I’ll write something, and if I don’t, I’ll write tomorrow. (What’s making me crazy is that yesterday afternoon I composed a wonderful post in my head — and now I can’t remember a darn thing about it! Feh!)