Today I am supposed to write something substantial. That’s what I scribbled in my Filofax, anyway. And by scribble I mean meticulously printed, underlined, and highlighted.
The day started strong, with about a hundred happy little ideas growing in my head. I dressed and fed the girls, chugged a pot of coffee, and cheerfully taxied my crew to school.
I “brain blogged” all the way home and laughed out loud at my deeply funny jokes. I congratulated myself on being such a talented writer. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was drunk on my own pre-productivity. Impressed by all I’d accomplished in my head, I swaggered into the garden to water and weed. Then I walked the dog, unloaded the dishwasher, made a pot of tea, checked in with all my clients, my traveling husband, the workers gutting the house across the street, and the weather.
I did everything but write.
The tea should’ve been a red flag. When I drink tea I am usually pretending. I have a whole cabinet full, like a trunk of dress up clothes, for when I want to be someone else or put on a show. In real life I drink black coffee. So when I went to put the kettle on, and the novelty of the pyrex tea pot caught my eye enough to make me stop and take pictures of it, I should’ve known I was headed down the wrong path.
By the time I sat down with my strange tea and smug grin, all of my bright shining ideas had been replaced by angsty hand-wringing and self-conscious whining.
Hours have passed since the sting of that moment, and I am still pouting. I tried to throw myself into other work, but the heat of embarrassment keeps creeping up my cheeks, distracting me. I feel like I’ve been disciplined publicly, like my hand was slapped away from a plate of cookies at a ladies’ luncheon.
This post is just me eating the cookies anyway.