The past two weeks didn't go as planned. They started alright, with a concise yet chippy entry dated January 2nd. How am I only thirteen days after that original post and already facing down unanticipated hurdles?
Writing is work. I know this. I have known this. It took me fifteen weeks to produce 85 pages that I was satisfied could pass as a thesis, and I'll admit it was still a bit thorny. I guess I started last week with the idea that returning to something that I enjoy after doing something that was incredibly taxing would be a cinch. Cinch it is not. Duh.
Marriage is work. It is when I convince myself that having a long-term partner in my life is easy coasting that I tend to find the bumps. Enough said.
Parenting is work. I have a 5-year-old who can explain that I'm operating around a C+ average.
Dealing with loud and seemingly inexhaustible neighbors (who need to separate because they clearly hate each other and everything else this world has to offer) is work. I had no idea just how much I really did not want to know about the people with whom I share a wall until it now has become an offensively large portion of my day.
I was euphoric starting out last week. "Here Comes the Sun," played at the grocery store and I smiled, feeling giddied and reassured by happy coincidence. Yes dear, the sun has arrived, and everything is still work.
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