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Ah, the Days of Wine and Roses and Not Shaving for a Week…

You know, it’s weeks like these that I look back fondly on a few magical weeks I had this past fall. I was dynamic. I was sharp. I was radiant. I was… unemployed.

And now, not so much. Now, I’ve got a job. Deadlines. Responsibilities. Everything but a clip-on tie and a parking spot. And while I don’t pine for those halcyon days of jobless yore, exactly, that’s mainly because I don’t know what the hell halcyon means. Or how to pronounce it. Or how that ‘y’ got in the middle there; that just doesn’t look right at all. Goofy-looking word, anyway.

Still, there are times when I do miss the snail-paced, oozing sort of life that I had for those few fleeting weeks last year. I could stay up late if I wanted, doing nothing in particular. I could sleep until ten, or later. I discovered all sorts of new and exciting and mind-numbingly banal television shows. Eventually, I got really, really freaking damned bored and started doing chores around the house. For an entire month, I never had more than two pairs of dirty boxers in the house.

(And not because I was ‘recycling’ them, or turning them inside out and rewearing them for another couple of days. What do I look like over here — a graduate student? Nah. I don’t do that stuff any more. That’s nasty.)

The point is, I had a lot of free time. Time to brush up on my golf game, time to learn to paint, time to bike several miles a day, time to set up a woodworking shop, even time to shop at the mall with my wife.

Of course, I didn’t actually do any of those ridiculous things. Even with the time, I don’t have that kind of energy. One of my eyes just involuntarily drooped shut, just writing about that nonsense. Who does that crap, anyway? Painting? Woodworking? Shopping, fer chrissakes? At a mall? Oops. There goes the other eye. Hold on.

Okay, all better. Anyway, all I’m saying is that for a while there, life moved at a bit slower pace. Actually, at a much slower pace. Like a paint-drying, grass-growing, little-old-lady-in-a-Buick-on-the-freeway slower pace. And while that got a bit tiresome after a few weeks, I could really use a quick dose of sitting idly on my ass right about now.

But alas, it’s not gonna happen. Too much work, too many deadlines, too many meetings, and way too many people looking over my shoulder, saying, ‘How’s it going?‘ and ‘Aren’t you finished?‘ and ‘Hey, didn’t they fire you a couple of weeks ago?‘ Yeah, right. At least then, I could sleep in once in a while.

On the other hand, I suppose I’m better off now. That whole ‘getting money’ thing is nice, for certain. And it’s probably a good idea for me to have a few hours a day in the company of other people, to keep myself reasonably socialized and make sure I don’t revert to self-grooming or moving into a cave or running around naked flinging poo, or anything like that.

(Yes, I’m implying that running around fully clothed and flinging poo is okay. Or standing still while flinging poo naked, for that matter. Possibly even running around naked and carrying poo, just so long as you don’t throw it. Dropping it might be all right. Or hurling it underhanded — does that count as flinging? How about if you just let it slip out of your hand onto someone’s shoe? Or maybe —

Hey. How the hell did we get onto this subject, anyway? Why does nobody stop me when this happens?)

Anyway, I forget what the hell I was saying. My memory’s not so good these days — it’s probably all those early mornings getting up and schlepping into the office that are shriveling my brain. But what are you gonna do? How else can I earn money to pay for beer and Chiclets? And as long as there’s time to blog, who needs any more, right? Hey, I know how to prioritize. Don’t you worry. Yeah.