female, age 24, full of lazy bones

This morning I woke up with a very swollen right eye. Glued together with gunk my eye seared with pain. I knew I would wake up like that. It’s how I went to bed.

I question my laziness sometimes. If I have flaws (and blah blah about how we all have them), my laziness is my Achilles heel. So many times my mother has texted me, or looked at me (you see, when you get older, your mother doesn’t make as much eye contact from far away … but she’s still looking) and said, “I don’t know why you are that way. Why you do ____.” Or rather don’t do.

It is socially unacceptable to be the way that I am. I hate brushing my teeth. I do laundry as infrequently as I possibly can. I burrito myself in a blanket if my dog has fleas and is lying on another blanket next to me. I also sleep in my contacts.

So when I started having eye pain yesterday — the “oh fuck! fuck! ow fuck!” crying kind — I knew that my contact was swimming somewhere in my eye. This morning I found out that it was the bottom right corner. Jammed in there so tight that the doc almost had to pull out his tweezers. He didn’t though. A victory, I thought.

I was driving around in a car that needed its 30,000 mile checkup. At mile 34,000 I took it in.

I ran out of yoga class passes so tonight, in a stunning attempt at frugality, I came home and pulled out my yoga mat, put on my yoga clothes, and made a vodka soda.

“You’ve all got a lazy streak,” my mom says about me, my sister, my brother.

What does my laziness have to do with anything?

Everything.

I didn’t go to my 10K training group on Saturday. I was cozy and hungover. “I’ll run tomorrow.”

On Sunday I was also cozy and hungover.

I feel myself carrying around the extra weight of too many beers and french fries. I count calories until I don’t and then I lay on my couch all day and who can even tell how much you weigh then?

I go to work. I get stuff done. I have aspirations. I would love to volunteer.

But red wine and Netflix. Jesus, I can volunteer later.

There are days when I don’t walk my dog and because of this I say that I don’t have time for extracurricular activities. Emma Louise comes first. So Emma Louise and I roll around on my bed. We make my bed every two weeks and fall into it, exhausted. We crawl out to the couch and we fall asleep at 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon and wake up with an eye that can barely see. We solve this problem, for the moment, with Oreos and a TV series with subtitles. That keeps us awake.

I want to transcend my laziness. I do, often. I am capable of incredibly un-lazy things. But brushing your teeth sucks, doesn’t it?

I called my sister a “crazy laundry person” earlier tonight and she said “why, because I do laundry?” and the answer was, “yes.” I’ve been wearing coffee stained jeans for a few weeks now. But you can’t even really tell.

I cleaned my room tonight. That was before the vodka soda. So that’s something. Emma helped me make the bed. She twists around and around in the blankets and sometimes, like tonight, she falls off the bed. She wags her tail. We have fun. And for a moment, I’m not so lazy.

What I want is to lose a few pounds, get my hair cut, and start using my self-tanner so I have a fall glow. I want to come up with brilliant ideas at work and investigate the shit out of something very important. I want Emma Louise to stop barking so much, because if I keep wanting that, I may actually get it.

But man, does it feel good to sink into a couch after a day at a desk. It feels so nice to snuggle into someone on Saturday morning, so much nicer than getting out of bed, putting on clothes. In my laziness I experience some of my most joyous moments. Don’t get me wrong, a runner’s high is still up there along with some clean ass sheets. But taking a deep sigh into a Saturday morning pillow knowing that a cheese and egg biscuit is very much in your future … oh man.

I try to talk myself out of laziness again and again. And then I think … what better time to be this way?

the courage and the grace

A lot has happened since I last sat down to write. Well, that’s not entirely true. I sat down last week and wrote a few sentences, saved the draft, and moved on with my day. I wasn’t feeling it, ya know? Even now, as I drink my one allotted glass of wine (I’ve decided I drink too much) I feel frustrated and sluggish. Emma Louise will not stop pacing the living room, wagging her tail and barking. It’s enough to drive me mad.

I was worried last week that my dog was depressed. I even wrote “I’m worried that my dog is depressed.” She seems better now.

My (trivial) concerns pass in waves.

A big one hit last month when one of my good friend’s father died rather suddenly. I went home for the funeral. When I saw her, Erica, she was wearing one of my old black shirts with little gold diamonds scattered across it. “That’s my shirt!” “I know.”

I love that about her.

I came home from that funeral concerned about my own self and my own family and everything that is in my small (and safe) world. I wondered how to stay there — how can I love and protect those closest to me? I wondered how I could get out. How do I, as my editor urges that I do, “free my mind, yo.”

I feared yesterday that I’d hit a creative plateau. A crisis of confidence surged through me. I wished I hadn’t had 10.5 beers on Saturday. I regretted Sunday’s pizza, which if you don’t eat the last piece, isn’t eating an entire pizza. I sat at my desk at work and knew I had so many things to do but I feared that I could not do them. Or even worse, that I could not do them well.

I am better today. Like Emma Louise, I guess. Perhaps I should be more careful how I rub off on her.

My yoga teacher ended tonight’s class with these words: May you have the courage to see yourself clearly and the grace to let go.

Good shit, right?

So that is where I am (and wherever you are, of course, is perfect). Again and again I grow comfortable in my life, even if the comfort doesn’t necessarily feel good. I’ve been sleeping in, tugging at Emma’s silky ears, asking her if we maybe just might go for a walk. Do I earn that walk? Or should I be pushing myself to go, do, be something else entirely?

I don’t have the answer.

But if I did, why would I still be clanging away on this keyboard, dusted with food crumbs and sticky with coffee stains? For now, my silky-eared lovebug can’t get enough of those walks. And a deep feeling tells me to hold on tight to that.