In a life that doesn’t know the word “routine”, one thing comes close. Sundays. They arrive faster with each passing month. I look forward to them. When the pace is more settled. TLD and I have breakfast together. And in my head, as I do every seventh day, I make plans.
This is the Sunday I feng shui my life. Forget all that’s come before. Today rather than simply pick up a section of the NYT I’ll actually read something. I don’t process well. I understand words. But when they’re strung together in sentences, my mind wanders. And wanders.
I also want to eliminate clutter. Wait. I wanted to do that last week. Though I fantasize about a John Pawson-y workspace, my mind keeps saying “tomorrow.” I can knoll and self-edit until the cows come home. I will, tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes.
I need something to cling to. To look forward to. I want my life to mirror the ideals I zoom in on when I open a page in the glossy magazines I take. That clean and seamless look that stylists create before the image is shot. I keep trying to get that here.
I talk to Deb about this often. The anxieties I harbor thinking my life should be “that” rather than “this.” The wrestling match continues. Do I want what I think others have? Would I be me if I suddenly became them? It gnaws at me every seventh day.