Ah, the glamorous life of the blogger…
Padding to the kitchen in her fuzzy slippers, fixing a cup of Joe before she realizes there is no milk and she is not dressed to go to the store. Looks like black coffee today, then. Getting dressed would involve showering and wet hair and all that mess, and, let’s be honest: Who wants to ruin the perfectly good look she’s got going on? The unbrushed teeth; the ghostly circles under her eyes that no concealer is going to fix; the sleep trousers emblazoned with cheerless, black butterflies and the oversized hoodie. The frown lines, the scowl. The cowlick off her widow’s peak corresponds perfectly with her pillow hair. She favoured her right side last night, obviously.
Personally, I think she’s rockin’ the whole disenfranchised recluse look. She’s got kind of a “Howard Hughes meets Gloria Swanson” vibe going on. But without the cigarettes. Or the bottles of wee. All she’s missing are dark glasses and a botox appointment.
The only thing she has accomplished this day is learning how to refer to herself in third person. (check!)
Truth is, there are a hundred other things I could and, indeed, SHOULD be doing this morning, but in the throes of post-holiday blues, I don’t really want to do any of them. Finances (ugh!), receipts, tax forms, deadlines… little-bits-of-paper… unpacking. Laundry, laundry, oh and – wait for it! – laundry. Boo.
I HAVE NO RIGHT TO COMPLAIN!
A week away basking in Italian sunshine with my whole family has been sheer joy, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world. But now that everyone is back to “life as usual” and my son has returned to the States, the clouds have returned to England both literally and figuratively, and this Mother Hen’s nest feels mighty empty at the minute.
Well, all except for the laundry. That is taking up plenty of space.
feature photo: Shutterstock
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