I’ve had such a frustrating evening. I wanted to relax. I wanted to do something in the present moment that felt absorbing, fun, wholesome.
Not endlessly browsing Facebook and HuffPost.
Not scrabbling around finding new playdates, weekend trips, picnics to plan because that gave me a sense of purpose.
My problem? Not settling into something. Not giving it a go, and chance to take root. I rejected all the books on our shelves. Ignored the yarn waiting to be crocheted/knitted up into some mangled creation. Found reasons not to go for a run or bake cakes for our picnic tomorrow. Niggled at Rich who thankfully saw straight through me and didn’t take the bait.
And now I feel yucky, all twitchy and cross. It reminds me of being desperate for a wee when I was small and almost bursting because I couldn’t choose the perfect book to read for that 3 seconds I sat on the loo (I’m not the only person who did that, am I? Am I?!).
The truth is, when I did eventually pick a book, it was fine. It was the right book. Pretty much any book would’ve been the right book. Just making a choice and going with it was all I needed to do to enhance my youthful weeing experience.
It seems I never learned that lesson. The hours I spent hopping in front of my bookcase. And that’s how I’ve ended up here now, writing an inane post about wee.