rigadoon, noun, they fell in love while dancing the rigadoon. a lively dance for couples, in duple or quadruple time, of Provençal origin.Everyone else my age is jet-setting on weekend trips across the country, drifting down to tropical islands on over-sized boats, or staying up late for early-morning rages that become hung-over afternoons spent by the pool. Well, not everyone. But my everyone. And then there's me. Sitting in my cubicle, twisting a push pin between my fingers, paying bills, drinking a Coke and feeling guilty about it.
Daily, my boss says things to me like, "You just need to be irresponsible, for once. Go on a shopping spree with your credit card and don't think about it until the bill comes." Why won't my brain take this and run with it? (Straight to Macy's with my shiny red piece of plastic.) "Don't worry about everyone else," she says, resigning herself to my practicality,"you'll get rewarded one day." And then she does this odd like ca-ching! move with her left arm that always makes me laugh.
In my poorness and practicality, I'm going to be efficient, rather than wallow in this shallow pool I've drawn for myself. I'm going to distract myself with small do-able projects. (I know I'm repeating from a previous post. Oh well.) I'm going to write some short fiction for blogs. I'm going to decorate my bedroom. I'm going to suck it up and shop in the produce section and make good dinners. I'm going to run after work. I'm going to avoid stupid distractions that keep me from reading.
My current fling is Meat: A Love Story a non-fiction book written by Canadian investigative journalist Susan Bourette. It began as an expose on the meatpacking industry and evolved into Bourette's quest to find "the perfect meat," one that she could eat regularly without guilt. I love vegetables and am not a big meat-eater, but by no means am I a wanna-be vegetarian. I guess I'm just curious and I want to be a conscientious carnivore--as she calls it. Oh, suddenly I feel SO old. This whole post reeks of oldness, and two of my middle-aged coworkers just started calling me a 50-year-old and asking if my desk phone could be replaced with a rotary phone, technology I would be more comfortable with. I can't go on.
Daily, my boss says things to me like, "You just need to be irresponsible, for once. Go on a shopping spree with your credit card and don't think about it until the bill comes." Why won't my brain take this and run with it? (Straight to Macy's with my shiny red piece of plastic.) "Don't worry about everyone else," she says, resigning herself to my practicality,"you'll get rewarded one day." And then she does this odd like ca-ching! move with her left arm that always makes me laugh.
In my poorness and practicality, I'm going to be efficient, rather than wallow in this shallow pool I've drawn for myself. I'm going to distract myself with small do-able projects. (I know I'm repeating from a previous post. Oh well.) I'm going to write some short fiction for blogs. I'm going to decorate my bedroom. I'm going to suck it up and shop in the produce section and make good dinners. I'm going to run after work. I'm going to avoid stupid distractions that keep me from reading.
My current fling is Meat: A Love Story a non-fiction book written by Canadian investigative journalist Susan Bourette. It began as an expose on the meatpacking industry and evolved into Bourette's quest to find "the perfect meat," one that she could eat regularly without guilt. I love vegetables and am not a big meat-eater, but by no means am I a wanna-be vegetarian. I guess I'm just curious and I want to be a conscientious carnivore--as she calls it. Oh, suddenly I feel SO old. This whole post reeks of oldness, and two of my middle-aged coworkers just started calling me a 50-year-old and asking if my desk phone could be replaced with a rotary phone, technology I would be more comfortable with. I can't go on.
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