How much soup can one make? How much material for writing can one find when one can’t get out and about? How much reading can one do in a day? How many hours can one hold the phone to one’s ear? Solitude doesn’t agree with me, although Richard believes he thrives on it.
I figure that I’m as much of a butterfly as I’m ever going to be. Staying in a cocoon all winter won’t make me beautiful or graceful. In fact, I’ll emerge that much older and uglier from the passing of time and the pull of gravity – not to mention what the dry heat does to one’s skin. Of course, dry heat does beat cold and moldy.
Maybe if I spend the day entering and organizing the photos I took during the holidays, I’ll be in a better frame of mind. But, then again, maybe I’ll start pining for my family that is back at their homes far from me. Richard’s fond of pointing out that even good stress is still stress. And he’s said that I should avoid all emotional moments until my blood pressure is under control. Who does he think he’s dealing with?
Feeling is my fuel for everything; I don’t even get out of bed until I feel like it’s time. I know other people are motivated by something other than their emotions, but I just don’t seem to be able to reach that level of maturity. The closest I can come is to reframe my feelings to make me do things I wouldn’t, otherwise, be willing to do. Sometimes, once I convince myself that I’m willing to do something, I can also enjoy doing it. The next time I’m faced with the situation, I may even want to do whatever I was previously avoiding.
I have paperwork to do, and paperwork to file. I should be able to do those things without any emotion, but, no. Anything that has to do with money makes me extremely nervous, and most of our paperwork has to do with finances. I’d delegate this job to Richard, but it would make me and him very tense for me to try explaining my filing system.
I could begin interviewing for the book I’m helping a grieving mother write about her police hero son, but that’s bound to get me all emotional. Even reading about current affairs seems to spike my pressure, and I don’t enjoy romance novels. Face book is full of other people’s tales, but then I tend to get emotional about our correspondence.
Since we don’t have a hot tub or a Jacuzzi to bathe away the tension, maybe I’ll peddle my way to peace on Richard’s stationary bike while reading about Greg Mortensen’s school building in Afghanistan, as told in Three Cups of Tea. I’ve gotta find something to do other than sit. Otherwise, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be a fungus on our futon by spring.