My life has been blissfully uneventful lately; & this makes me a pretty boring girl, because I never have anything to talk about. No stories to tell, no gossip to indulge in. Just everyday conversations, habitual chores & intimidating silences when I am alone. This is not to say that I’m complaining; I’m not. I enjoy my free time & I miss it when it’s gone. It’s just that wish I had something important to say these days. To be that girl to tell the funniest joke or the one who makes the best chocolate chip cookies. Something (anything!) at all.
My writing has suffered tremendously because of my stagnant little life. I can no longer conjure up amazing thought processes or heavy-duty contemplations; it’s as though I’m on vacation. My brain doesn’t seem to register that sort of important-like goal making, that “lets get down to business” mindset. Again, I’m not complaining; whining, mostly. I just wish I could give people something to talk about.
My husband & I have been terribly out of sync these past few months. We never get bored at the same time anymore, & if we do, it’s completely sporadic, like in the middle of the night when we should be in bed. If I am sleepy, he is wired & wants to wrestle in the sheets. If I am full of energy & ready to people watch, he is reluctantly glued to the couch, half awake/half asleep, breathing deeply & insisting that he’s not falling asleep. So because of this out of sync-ness, we go in & out of moods. I’ll adjust my mood to be more calm like his, & right as I’m drifting off into relaxation & mimicking his deep breathing, he is ready to get up & go somewhere & do somethings & wreak some havoc. & vice versa: he’ll begin to amp himself up for a “gay old time” (as we like to put it) so I can finally stop pestering him to get out of bed; & then I’ll become so lazy all of a sudden that nothing gets done. Equally, we both get irritated & exasperated, & that makes for a very long weekend.
Tonight is nothing short from Typical. Lover got tired almost immediately — I cannot blame him, for he works so very hard, without one complaint — & ended up retreating to our loft to “rest his eyes.” He’s been sleeping there ever since (7pm) & I was left downstairs, cold & lonely, watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie. This usually happens. We never go to bed at the same time. It’s never too far apart; no more than an hour or 2, but still… we’re completely out of sync. I hope that this is normal; because it’s often misconceived that in wedded bliss, the sun sets & rises on each other & that we’ll be too busy wrapped up in each other to barely come up for air. Of course, this is true on some days, but on most… we’re usually involved in something opposite each other. Life, usually.
I must admit that I have been shying away from this little diary — getting too personally involved in it, I
mean — because I know that there is a listening audience. An audience of strangers, yes, but still… a listening audience. I have always been a bit timid when it comes to being put on the spot, & while I’ve tried to make sure that this place is the most safest of them all, I feel like the spotlight is constantly on bright here, exposing me to the world, making me vulnerable & susceptible to jeers (or cheers, maybe).
& to know that I am putting myself willingly under a microscope, not only within my own thoughts but within my massive, unimpressive wardrobe, well, that is far from my character. & by far, I mean… far. & that just makes this whole thing even more interesting because I’ve always been overly private. Again, I am not complaining; just whining, I guess.
Then, I begin to think just how many people actually read my diary & how many feel like they know me so well already, just on what I’ve revealed here. I’m curious to know, actually. I’ve often wondered who might these people be; what might they look like? & could we ever be true friends?
Button-down frock, from a thrift store; rolled up capris & sandals, from Ross; messanger bag (filled with all of my tricks), from Forever21.