Maybe I’m not a witch. Or maybe 33 is just not the year of my most glamorous self. It’s still a witchy number, but… I’m feeling ugly and uninspired. I can’t seem to shed the five-to-seven pounds I’ve gained over the past month, my face is constantly breaking out, my raven hair is turning gray, and I spend more time guzzling Pizza-flavored Pringles than actually doing my job.
Work has no passion. I bumble the hours away and pull something out of my ass (with Enrique’s help… although that sounds dirty and inappropriate when it’s not). We’re just two writers seeking greatness in our own mediocrity and wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe we are mediocre. We’re certainly lazy. I’ve spent a good portion of this blog contemplating arrogance and sucking my own dick, but we just completed a magazine survey and readership has gone down since I’ve been at the helm. Maybe I haven’t made things better.
I say I want to spend more time with the kids, but then I just spent this past three-day weekend napping excessively and largely ignoring my family. I wonder if I could ever be a stay-at-home mom, if I’d do that better than my real job. It doesn’t seem like the kind of work you can bullshit.
I spend more time playing Candy Crush than doing anything meaningful. At work. At home. It’s like I’m exhausted by the ennui of my daily existence. Drained from doing nothing.
It sucks that readership has gone down because I desperately want to be liked, and it’s as if my audience is saying they don’t like me. Then again, I’m not unlike Big A attempting to walk our new 40-pound puppy last night. As helpful as she was trying to be, she kept interfering with our leash-training efforts. “You want all the benefits without doing any of the work,” I told her, criticizing her shoddy dog-walking skills while feeling the harsh truth of my own words.
Meanwhile, Little A is doing better and hasn’t threatened to kill me since that one weekend last month. So, progress. Really. She’s like sunshine 89 percent of the time, and the coolest damn kid I know, and she needs me. She needs us. I see the difference it makes when Mr. D and I give more fully of our time, and I want more of it with my kids. Big A, Little A, and now, Doggy A.
It always comes back to Time. How we use it. How we squander it. I guess that’s why I’m not feeling very witchy. Magic is work, and I haven’t really felt like doing any.