the best imitation of myself

I lost the weekend somehow. It was not spent in an alcoholic stupor, I know that much, but suffice it to say nothing happened that was worth posting about. I'll never have that weekend back again. The trouble with life is pacing. Who was it who said time is what keeps everything from happening at once? Because he was wrong. Time moves at its own speed and it doesn't keep tabs on events—those like to spread out unevenly through the fourth dimension. They dogpile, crashing one into the other like a bad day on the highway, backing traffic up for miles while the road ahead stretches clear and barren, miles of unrelieved straightaway inducing hypnosis.

There was a flurry of activity yesterday when I made, broke, and re-scheduled last-minute plans to fly to Atlanta to see Rufus Wainwright in concert and visit with silentfire and my siblings. If you're between the ages of 18 and 22 you can fly stand-by on AirTran for $59 per segment ($79 for "long-hauls") plus another ten bucks or so in fees, which is and would have been fantastic! Except that the weekends are inadvisable for attempting stand-by; and I would have stayed over until next Monday or Tuesday, but this Sunday is Father's Day and I should be here. It's my dad's first Father's Day without his father. In which case I would have come back Thursday, but it seemed like an awful lot of time spent waiting uncertainly in airports flanking a pretty short visit. And I could have tried flying back Friday or Saturday—because hey, there might be a spot!—but I'm paranoid: I have vivid visions of myself sitting in the airport all day and in the end still not getting on a flight. I've reluctantly taken the pragmatic view and planned a visit for next week (or so?) when I can stay a week complete and not worry about anything. silentfire, I don't know if you've gotten my voicemails re: all of the tedious above, but I'm sorry about the failing at life thing, and give my love to Rufus Wainwright?

While I didn't do a load of laundry and head to the airport this morning, I did set my alarm as though I were going to do just that, so I found myself awake and breakfasted at nine a.m. A nap never materialized. I did get taken out to lunch by my dad at one or one-thirty (after I'd spent most of the morning and early afternoon methodically (read: alphabetically by author, and I'm up to "D") re-reading the SG:A fic on my harddrive. Lunch was a surprisingly delicious wrap at Waffleworks—of all places—but I could have done without the lunchtime conversation, whose topic was: So What Are You Going To Do With The Next Year and/or The Rest of Your Life? Let Us Brainstorm In Search of an Answer! My dad remains firm in his conviction that I should become a constitutional lawyer; or, barring that, an editor. Of something. It doesn't matter what, but I have editorial skills, you see? It was awful. Because he does want to help, he only wants to help, but I tend to go fetal and non-responsive when I start thinking about careers. He had me trapped in the booth with my really good wrap on the table in front of me though, so I had to grit my teeth and hostile-witness my way through it. I have never felt more like a sullen teenager. Plus the fact that my dad and I are radically different personality types and that he doesn't quite know what would or would not appeal to me in terms of things I would be happy and fulfilled by doing every day for a given large number of days. He's a salesman and he likes people: meeting people, talking to people, being around people. I don't. He asked if I'd ever taken any aptitude tests, and I said yes, I have: it turns out I like everything, except people.* This is not exactly helpful.

I know I am not built for the service industries. In addition to but apart from that, I don't like the idea of working in a service industry. I'd much rather be in the actual process of creating or producing something** rather than form part of the necessary but non-specific network surrounding it. I know also that wherever I end up I won't have a time card and be forced to clock in and out. It's too close to bells ringing to announce class changes, monitored for punctuality for its own sake and not for how much work ever gets done. I am not cut out for nine-to-five. Give me what you need done, tell me when it needs to be completed, and I will do it. I'm fairly sure that I'm not destined for time cards anyway. But I think of working in an office like I did last summer, and part of it is appealing, because it's a culture, with rituals and common experiences: daily commutes (of whatever duration), elevators, clocking in first thing in the morning, desks and coworkers, the lunch hour, the refrigerator in the break room, counting down until it's time to go home—but it's only appealing in an anthropological, or even role-playing kind of way, acting at office work. In practice it would sap my will to live. My dad is able to picture very few jobs that don't involve an office.

I learned at least one thing from our little chat: my statute of limitations. I'd wondered what the cap was for having no direction in life, and it turns out it's right about . . . now. They're still in the supportive stage—merely worried, not impatient—but my dad did joke today about wondering where they'd gone wrong with my brother and me. They may tell you, repeatedly, to take all the time you need, but I've been waiting. It's like an all-you-can-eat! buffet of indecision and some of us brought bigger appetites than anyone anticipated. The proprietors first grow nervous, then indignant; it all ends with icy smiles and polite requests to never come back again.

* When asked to rank these four items: people, facts, things, and ideas, it's a close call between the last three (usually I put it down as ideas, facts, things, but it changes if I stare at it too long) but people is waaaay down at the bottom of the list. There might only be four items, but it's in tenth place. I've probably got some low-grade social-anxiety going, but barring any professional diagnoses, people make me tired.

** Anything—be it a fact, a thing, or an idea.

God, that's all boring. After lunch we drove down the street to the library, who'd called this morning to tell me they had two (TWO) books waiting for me, and before I picked them up at the check-out desk, I browsed for another three. We got back to the house a little before four, in just enough time for me to change my clothes and get back in the car to head up to Ft. Lauderdale for yoga with malelia_honu. I definitely work up a sweat. My legs shake when it's time to leave. Something to duly note: one can be too flexible. I'll have to take care not to hyper-flex my back.

For dinner my mother made the most fantastic soup ever omg, recipe courtesy Alton Brown. ( you can even find the recipe for Curried Split Pea Soup behind this very cut tag ) Did I mention it was FANTASTIC? After dinner we watched N.C.I.S. (my dad and I guessed most of the major plot twists) and House: I enjoyed it, I still love him, there were many interesting decisions and reveals, but basically I don't have much to say.

I have appointments to make tomorrow, bills to pay, books to read, and the gym to go to. I was up early this morning, did an hour of yoga, and have had no nap. It is way past my bedtime. I shall take my crossword puzzles with me.