SENIOR (CITIZEN) DITCH DAY

This is going to be uncharacteristically brief.  Between last week's debilitating dance with influenza,  my failed attempts at bilocation (so to tend to the sixteen other 'fine messes I've gotten myself into'), and the languid pitch of my waning motivation resulting from the interminably long exposure to dank and dreary atmospheric conditions......well, I am WAY behind schedule.

Being that I am my own boss, I'm not sure how that will exactly play out insofar as a reprimand goes, but I have already docked myself any hope of future slack-time after my irresponsible antics this morning when I took my down-trodden bones on a walk to reacquaint my faltering countenance with the passively warm sensation of sunshine as it glints off my pale skin.

And that was after my customary torture on the elliptical, which just illustrates how desperate I was for the outdoor variety of refurbished air!  I'm not sure we actually have fresh air anymore or fresh anything, for that matter.  I can't even find a fresh clove of garlic for my linguine.  Everything comes in bottles or smothered in plastic wrap and I can't afford organic.  Only the wealthy can be comfortably healthy.  Do I hear another poem?

However, now that I have returned to hearth and studio, I am faced with a boatload of "barely-beguns" and"I'll-get-to-that-tomorrows", and whatever idiotic grin I sported on my doughy and distracted face during my walk has been deposed by the grim expression of a ditch digger whose labors have been undermined by an unfortunate pre-dawn landslide.

I shouldn't even be writing this right now, but the thought of completely severing the tie between my thoughts and their expression on this bright and blooming day is simply more than I can bare.

Who else will hear me if not the two or three misdirected internet travelers who find themselves at this spot quite by accident while researching Sandra Bullock's betrayal or that recipe for Linguine with clam sauce that we all saw demonstrated on The Today Show this morning?  Look, I'll take who and what I can get.  My sense of entitlement vanished the first time I changed a diaper almost 28 years ago and I've amended my strategy for fame and fortune to such an extent that I am just thrilled when I'm recognized by the manager of the supermarket.

And as much as I loath the idea of shutting down my loquacious meanderings and moving off to the drafting table or work bench, I'm gonna do it.  Somebody has to be the mature, responsible one in this one-woman enterprise; and I know from past experience that not one of the colorful voices in my head can be counted on to come through under pressure.  This leaves only me.

If I don't come back, you'll know I've been fired.

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Did I mention I am not well?