Taking the sumptuous road to sloth

On most weekends, it's just another couple of weekdays. I'm just as busy on my Saturdays and Sundays as I am on any other day. This weekend, I decided to do things a bit differently.

It's been about two weeks since I've been back, since I've gotten back into the swing of school... classes, teaching, pushing my thesis through, and so on... to tell the truth, I'm not feeling tired, necessarily, or stressed, or worn out, or frazzled in the least. It'll probably catch up with me at some point, though, which is why I decided that, this weekend, I'd do something to curtail it.

Rather than go off and stomp through the city, or go to an open mic, or go to campus and do work, I decided, against some of my better judgment, to stay home and do absolutely nothing. Recharge my batteries, as it were. My Saturday was nice... worked out a little with my new excercise ball and my dumbells throughout the day, watched a good bit of television, caught up on my emails, worked on music a touch, and ate now and then. Lovely. Today, I took an unusually long shower, sat around in a bathrobe (reminiscent of being back in Texas), covering myself head to toe in scented lotion like it's going out of style, and even practiced applying my new makeup... and believe me, I need the practice. So here I am, reclining on my futon, in my dressing kimono, in full makeup, sipping hot tea, listening to Jude on my iPod Nano, thumbing through a couple of my textbooks now and then, jotting down lyrics for new songs when they occur to me... I could realy get used to this.

Actually, no. In spite of how admittedly nice this has been, I haven't been able to escape the nagging feeling that I'm missing out on getting things done. It's hard, really, to have a little vacation that you don't feel you're remotely entitled to, so you spend your down-time in a not-so-down place stress-wise, silently obsessing about what you're going to have to catch up on or what you'll have to do to make up for your sinfull indulgence, until it becomes a droaning, numbing, continuous grumble everpresent in the background of your thoughts, which are all the while bent on relaxing. So you fight it... "Relax, damn it!" You begin to self-depricate, hating yourself for being such a freak about not being able to relax and enjoy the idea of doing absolutely nothing. Then you become determined, in that instant, to defeat your own neurotic tendency toward constant productivity, to be normal for a second and relax into doing nothing and actually feeling good about it. It's then that you realize, as far as you're concerned, that what you think is normal... enjoying the idea and the activity of non-activity... just isn't normal for you. In short, yes, I'm liking this, but I'm still glad that it'll be over by tomorow. For now, I'm fine in my kimono and my makeup and my layers of lotion... I wouldn't mind a phonecall, though. I'm starting to forget what it's like to interact with other people... their ways are becoming... strange to me...