Yes, I have something worse than the Monday Morning Blues. A disease more distressing than Post-Vacation Lethargy. I have the “Blahs.”
Do you know what I mean?
The weather outside is gray and drizzly. Blah.
Piles of cat-scratchings mock me, clinging to my slippers when I walk anywhere near the dining room. Who cares?
Dishes are piled in the sink and my bullet journal schedule for the week is practically blank. Whatever.
Last night, I tried to convince my husband to call in sick so we could do something fun today. He laughed. (Although he agreed that he didn’t want to go to work today either.)
Working at home is a double-edged sword when I have the blahs. I mean, if I really don’t feel like it, I don’t have to head to the office. No one is staring at the empty desk wondering when I’ll show up.
But my mother taught me better than that.
It’s called self-discipline. And if it isn’t her voice chiding me about the filthy bathrooms and the piles on my desktop, it’s a drill sergeant blasting me with condemnation.
So even with the Monday Morning Post-Vacation Blahs, I’d better get myself in gear and go to work.
At least I can wear my new sweats. Ah, talk about comfy.
I can take breaks to crochet another granny square. Or play Words with Friends.
After all, I’ve only got to write the blog posts for the next two weeks. And I’ve come up with a fantastic idea for half of them.
Vacation is needful. It’s especially important for me to get away from home so I can inhale fresh adventures and map new settings. These are gold mines for future fiction tales.
Hemingway got a few things right. And this was one of them.
If I didn’t work as a substitute teacher, I could go days without ever leaving my house. I don’t count walking to the mailbox or picking up groceries as “living.” Sorry.
Many writers face the same sort of compulsion. To lock ourselves away with whatever we’re currently working on. Why bother even showering? No one’s going to see us.
And then the UPS guy rings the doorbell and waits for a signature.
It’s always best to plan for package delivery if nothing else.
I wonder what he thinks of the big smear of something above my left knee. He glances toward my hair and suddenly a platoon of itches marches through my unwashed hair.
Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch.
And then I return to my office and plunge back into my writing.
Did the doorbell ring? What time is it?
Apparently, I should be figuring out what to cook my husband for dinner. When he travels, I don’t have to deal with this problem.
As you can see, this post might have arrived a few hours later than usual. But it’s here.
The blahs didn’t win.
What constitutes the blahs to you?
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