Maiden Voyage

OK. So people keep asking me why I don't have a blog. And I get it. I'm quite clever at times and I can string a good sentence together now and again. But what these good-meaning people don't realize is how masterbatory these things can be.
I used to journal. Well, I should say that there have been moments in my life when I have tried to journal. What a nightmare. They should be burned. Strings, endless, meaningless strings of sentences beginning with "I". Self-absorbed bunk that would embarrass even the most pathetic thirteen-year-old. My fear is this could collapse into such drivvel.
It is up to me, to be sure. But it's a matter of what drives me to the words? What kinds of things do I feel compelled to disclose.

So, here it goes. I don't want to be selfish and disappoint those folks who have requested this.

Maiden voyage. A title chosen for its triteness. Tonight's theme? The joys of singlehood.

This morning I woke up on time, amazingly enough. Not sure how that happened. At the foot of the bed on the 'other' side is a pile of clothes that continues to grow each night. I look at it and it makes me mostly sad, although part of me enjoys the fact that I can just let it be there and not worry about it getting in anyone's way. Bed - mine! All mine. Would I give up the pile for a steady body on the other half? In a heartbeat. So what is that pile? A statement of ownership? A little lemon juice in the papercut of being single? A heavy sigh of resignation? Or, and this might be the key, a visual aid of how lazy I am when I'm sleep deprived from going to bed way too late for days on end. Yes, let's call it that.

When feeding George I spilled a bunch of his food. I was in a hurry to get out the door and didn't bother cleaning it up. I justified it by saying that nibbling off the floor might be fun for him since his life is so disturbingly boring right now. God, did I actually think that to myself? Yes, in fact I did. (Sometimes I wonder if George has any idea what myriad of decisions he's involved in in my life.) Today, upon my returning from my meaningless and completely uneventful day at work (for another posting), the food was still there. George hadn't eaten any of it from what I could tell. And why would he? Sheesh - he's got a fresh bowl nicely placed at neck height. Another pile I was able to ignore because I live alone, because I'm single and because I know no one will be visiting tonight.

But so what? So what that I have piles of cat food and clothes laying around in places they shouldn't be. What's that about? Instead of framing it as pathetic, sad, a sign of my fading grasp on the things most important, why not reframe it as liberation. That's right! Piles of liberation. The cat food of liberty. The clothing pile of freedom. No one has to know. They're my piles and they are deeply intimate. They are my life right now. People all over wish they had the ability to just leave piles.

OK, just let me believe that. Let me believe that these piles represent something better than what they appear as. I need it. I need to love those piles. It's November in Minnesota. Despair is gearing up for a heady blow as the tempertures drop and the daylight fades to nearly nothing. If making positive meaning out of my domestic misfirings gives me even a tiny bit of comfort, let me have it. Please.