I’m bored. Bored,
I tell you! Bored, bored, bored. I had so looked forward to a rainy Saturday.
The rain all morning was constant, though I saw scary pictures from around
town. A nearby street known for restaurants, bars, and fun was ankle-deep in
water that was running fairly fast. And a tragedy on the far east side of the
city, where a woman and toddler were swept off the road into thirty feet of
water. No way rescue could get to them. Imagine that. Thirty feet. I was glad
to stay home, safe and dry, casting an occasional eye at the patio to be sure
the water wasn’t threatening to come into the cottage.
Sophie
periodically walked to the screen door and peered out, then turned away as if
to say in disgust, “Still raining.” She, by the by, has developed the bad habit
of wanting to go out between 1:30 and 4:30 a.m. and last night it dawned on me
she may not so much want to go out as she wants the bit of cheese she knows I
reward her with if she comes right in. Last night she was by the refrigerator awfully
quickly. Another reaffirmation of my decision to live in a cottage and not a
high-rise retirement community.
I was so much looking
forward to the day that I was up and at my computer by 7:30 this morning,
enthusiastic about all I could accomplish today. And my goodness, have I
accomplished a lot—wrote 1800 words, finished proofing the cookbook (and came
to grips with the reality that I have to do an index of recipes), read a bit,
followed the day’s happenings on Facebook—and napped, twice. Not because I was
sleepy but because on a rainy dull day bed seemed like a good place to be.
(Honest, I work out plots in my head when I’m dozing.)
Typical of my day:
called my oldest son about 10:15 in the morning to discuss a financial matter.
He was riding his bike—stationary I presume—and said his training session would
be over in ten minutes and he’d call then. Texted at 2:00 p.m.to inquire if he
was still riding and wasn’t he tired yet. He called right away. Emailed my younger
son with a computer question, and he answered promptly asking for more info that
he needed to answer me. That’s the last I heard from him today. Suppose he fell
asleep?
There comes a point
when you’ve written all the words you have for the day, you really don’t want
to start an index sort of late in the day, and the book you’re reading s good—but
not that good. And that’s where I am—bored.
TV? I rarely
watch, and tonight I’m afraid as a final insult added to injury football is
going to take over the news slot. There is no justice in this world.
Do I feel silly
complaining about boredom when I have my dog for company, my cozy cottage, a
desk full of work to do? You bet I do. And it’s a rare confession from me. But
tomorrow will be better.
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