It is nice, surprising even, to re-read the responses to my last entry. I think I expected nothing, in a good way, not that no one would read but that there wasn’t much to say in response. That’s another difference between me and many other people I know who write publicly: the expectation of response. Most of the time, I’m riffing here. I do know that some people read this regularly, and as I was about to write, “a flattering, fuzzy thought,” I realized that I might provide schadenfreude to those who don’t know me. O. That’s not a fuzzy thought, although it is somewhat flattering, in a backhanded way. Never-we-mind; the point was, I am aware of being read, but unaware of the level at which my readers would prefer to interact with me.
Most of the time, when I read people’s thoughts, I just want to read them. That’s all. That’s selfish? I don’t know; not for me, but for other people it must seem so.
Enough of the meta-crap. My week winds up, and will wind down just as quickly. I am concerned about leaving work for two weeks but my family is, has always been, and I hope will always be more important to me than my career. Regardless of what one might assume about my staunchly childfree status.
Four-hundred-some pages into A Clash of Kings and I realize I have been doing little else but reading, napping, and eating during my time off. My paper journal stands largely neglected. I will not be taking the laptop on my trip. Sometime I must unplug, perhaps for a whole week, and understand what it means to exist without email again. I suppose that week will involve a lot of reading, and drinking tea, and petting the fattening cat. We are both ever-fattening, as it happens; maybe during that week I should take up a terribly healthy regimen … again. Working out is so boring, it’s no wonder I never stick with it. I should give up the Nutella-straight-from-the-jar, as well.
It’s late. Again. These after-work naps will never do. Can you imagine me as a redhead? Perhaps you should go on and try. I’m off to become one.