Time passes slowly. I’m plugging through work, churning out letters to authors, running small errands. Only 2½ hours have passed. I enjoy the music I have playing. I still cough and my nose still runs, but it isn’t as bad as it was before. I look forward to relaxing, to sleeping in, to staying in, to going out, to volunteering. I feel guilt over not going to the gym, but lack motivation to go, and justify it by using the fact that I am, in fact, still hacking and coughing far more than is healthy. I contemplate going to a conference, to writing under tight deadlines, to spending a lot of time with people from work. I feel nervous about what I’ll do there—not the work part, but the social parts. Will I eat alone? Will I be stuck with Cindy far too much? I think about Kim, whether she fits in, what it’s like to have a supervisor who remains solely in the realm of bossdom and doesn’t blur into the realm of friendship. I look around my cube and want to organize my files, long to clear out my email and Krishni’s email and get it all filed away. I realize this means losing the files boxes next to my computer, which I’ve been using as a really handy extra surface. I wonder whether anything can really get put in order. Nothing can stay orderly forever.
Current song in my head:
“If My Heart Had Wings” by Faith Hill