So you end up sitting on the sofa watching three disks of Angel season 3, eating half a box of Cadbury’s Rose’s, and generally feeling fat and sorry for yourself.
Stage two, following inevitably as it does a day-long hung-over binge on Joss Whedon creations, normally involves sitting at the desk, staring at the view, and self-analysing as opposed to actually DOING.
Or perhaps you aren’t familiar with these feelings. Lucky you is all I can say.
I’m sitting here, listening to The Sweet (don’t ask), occasionally getting up and pacing, waiting for life to give me a swift kick in the pants to get me going. Or for me to give life a swift kick to get it going. There should be kicking going on somewhere down the line, of that at least I’m sure. I’ve got all these plans you see. I can tell you exactly what needs to be done yet… I’m not doing it.
Have I rejoined the gym?
Even though I really need to get fit again?
Even with the prospect of meeting new people in a few months and wanting to look good?
Um, check previous answer.
Then there’s the whole “going out, having fun” thing. So sure, I went round the Divine M’s last night and had an absolute blast. (Which might, or might not, be something to do with attractive men plying me with me wine for the better part of the evening). But tonight I’ve reverted to full hermit-mode and stood up illyna for a night of dancing – I love dancing!
It seems I get so far and then skedadle back to my little cave waiting for my knight to come rescue me. Because I think that’s the problem here. I want rescuing. I don’t want to have to rescue myself, because rescuing myself is just too much like hard work. I’ve got comfortable in my little routine and it’s a big, scary world out there. I’m not sure I want to challenge the status quo because then…
Eek. Something might actually happen.
Don’t get me wrong: I adore my life right now. My job, whilst it sounds boring, is actually enjoyable (mostly), challenging and involves me making a genuine difference to people’s lives. Plus it pays enough that I have a little extra each month to treat myself – not a lot, but enough. I can’t complain. I have as much of my health as I ever am going to have. Plus I have people around me who I adore and who seem rather fond of me in return. I am honestly, truly, hand-on-my-heart happy with where I am. So why am I antsy? Why, deep down is there a little thought squiwrling away saying “you’re never going to have that happy ever after…”
Why following that is there still the voice that goes “and you don’t deserve it either…”
Crap. I shouldn’t be sitting here waiting for my life to happen, I should be out their living it. I want to go for lunch with my friends and tell them the stories of my nefarious deeds, as opposed to just listening in awe to theirs. Vicarious thrills are all well and good, but something tells me that to personally experience said thrills would be more, well, thrilling.
Just, well, I think I need someone to come give me a kick. Or a kiss. This frog thinks it’s time she turned into a princess.
(And yes I am aware that I seem to be pinning all my hopes for improving my life on getting a man. I know, I know. I really am as self-sufficient as the next girl – just so long as the next girl is some gooey soppy romantic at heart who just wants to be loved. Grrr. Damn my self-esteem for actually existing now and making me think I deserve someone more than just ordinary. It would be so much easier if I was willing to just settle for the first guy who could string a sentence together.)