So after my boldly stated ambitions I, naturally, have no new acquisitions from Powells nor have I bothered to do much reading and certainly little that I would consider inspiring or even fascinating (in either a delightful or pitiful way). Instead yesterday I actually did homework in the morning and studied for my next MA exam in the afternoon (greek) and finally went for a run in the evening and then made some slap-dash pesto with chicken for dinner and let Ethan seduce me from more homework with a proposition of a second go-round at Mint Juleps and an evening of bad movies and board games. Which was just fine with me. We popped in All Dogs Go to Heaven which I haven't seen in a very very long time and Ethan tried out his ice crushing skills with our rubber mallet, an obliging stool, and a soon-to-be-punctured ziplock bag. This method was much more successful than this weekend with the blender which granted makes less noise for our neighbors but is also a much more finicky process and therefore less fun (also no banging away with a mallet, one of the many delights I fill my life with). And this morning instead of curling up uncomfortably on our couch I actually had breakfast, listened to car talk, and made Weredog's lemon meringue pie that I've been craving since about four months ago and liked ever since she first made it. The trick is less sugar for the lemons so it ends up as a wonderfully tart and creamy experience. I'm sitting here slowly melting away all my will-power as it cools in the kitchen but I doubt a runny slice would be worth my impatience. So. A weekend morning gone in the kitchen and work plans for the afternoon. Surely my sloth will return itself soon enough, otherwise I suppose I can always back-post and account for the first six weeks of my summer.
In Which I Attempt to Start Doing This More Often Again
This all started I suppose back in first grade when I pretended to have read Little House in the Big Woods to impress, I suppose, my teacher or my fifth-grade reading partner or someone. Or maybe in kindergarten when I read my first book on my own (which my mother thinks I probably just had memorized, it was read to me so many times). My leisure time is reading time. Yes there's ultimate which I am also slavishly devoted to but that has a wearying tendency so that over the course of weeks or months or a long practice or even pickup I need to do something else for a while. Often, read. I am addicted to the flow of language on a page - just ask Ethan what it's like when I clean off a table or my desk. I spend more time reading though the pages that I'm about to throw away -just in case there's something worth keeping, some vital knowledge or delightful turn of phrase I'm going to miss- than I do actually organizing or throwing out what's left. My mother sent me to sports summer camp so I wouldn't sit around and read all day, every day, during the summer. A smarter, slimmer sort of couch potato. I would fall into some kind of raptured trance and enter whatever world the words fashioned sometimes losing all my connection with the real world - of hearing, sight, sound, except for the crawling black ink on the page. It's like a heroin addiction and unfortunately my dealer lives across the street and conveniently gives out lots of free samples. I'm not sure how many books we've plundered from Powell's this summer but there have been at least one or two days of infamy so far - June 15th always being profitable and finals in general a fairly good period. I pick up literature and non-fiction and textbooks and crap. And I read it all, eventually, and put most of it back when I'm done. The Hyde Park Lending Library, as it were. I seem to have lost some focus what with no longer being miserable in Philadelphia all the time nor trapped in boring classes in school. Even with work (which I carefully shirk) and ultimate and my lovely kitchen this summer I still am haunted by the stack of books I pick up and feel compelled, constantly, to read. And I do. I finished two books yesterday instead of learning the perfect passive in German and picked up four more today. It only seems right to (temporarily, at least) couple my compulsion for reading with compulsory writing. So ensues the chronicle of Trophywife and the Printed Word.
I was out the other night, itching to be in, and as usual protesting to the masses that I couldn't stay longer, that I ought to go home, despite the pressure to let inertia flow and stay with the party. And then a funny thing happened - with a resigned smile the party says "well, you're married now" and suddenly I was free to go, obligation and guilt free. When did this happen? Granted I've heard this response more than once in the last ten months but I wonder how the simple fact that Ethan and I signed a paper and wore nice clothes in front of people suddenly justifies social isolation especially considering the fact that I've been using the same justification for years to no avail. I guess finally something about married life is different than before.
