I Left My Glasses

Oy. I had to get away from the apartment, even though John Traynor has not arrived. Moronically, however, I left my glasses on the desk at home, so sooner rather than later, my handwriting is going to be very, very hard to read.

It's really cool here - temperature-wise. I knew it would be, so I wore a long sleeve shirt over my tee-shirt.

This is a good day, all told. All the stuff I needed to do at work got done - thank the universe - and though a lot of stuff popped up, I was able to deal with it as it came along without feeling like it was too crazy. Days like this don't get the good press they should, so allow me to take this moment to acknowledge that there aren't enough days when we feel on top of our lives. I dug it.

Hmmm... here's one for the Slightly Skeevy Files: The counter guy here at the Starbucks just made a tidying sweep through the dining room and reached into the trash can to compact the trash in there with his bare hands. Color me germ-obsessed, but this guy's making my tea.

Man, I'm really looking forward to my vacation to Florida. Just for the opportunity to sleep somewhere other than my room - just to see if the mattress noise combo really is what is causing my lack of sleep. I have to remember to get my swimming gear out of my locker at the gym, so I can take it with me. Something else to remember: I need to get a nice pair of sandals for my trip.

Remind me to do that, will you?

Someone in Georgia won the Mega-Millions jackpot, and I can't help - thinking of their good fortune - how nice such a thing would be. The problem - at least with me - is that my tendency is to dwell on fantasies to the point where I'm distracted from the important stuff.

Sometimes I worry that my downfall will be my escapist imagination. I've thought more than once that daydreaming can be as much of an addiction as alcohol or drugs. They're their own forms of escape, right? Clearly they're a lot more physically devastating than an addiction to imaginative escape. I wonder where it all comes from, really - the need to not deal, to avoid, if only for a short while.

The problem here - as with all excessive navel gazing - is that it can become too self-referential. Like Narcissus staring into the pond, it becomes impossible to move on.