I have a favorite desk in the library. It's on the second floor, in front of the new nonfiction titles, facing the window. But when I arrived today, it was already taken by a man with formidable posture and a pencil tucked behind his ear. I sighed and selected the next desk over. I think this would have been okay, except that I sat with my back to the window, and just as I was about to switch to the other side (they are facing desks, designed for two to sit), another man plunked down all his stuff and smiled. I half-heartedly returned his gesture and resigned myself to my fate. I then proceeded to slog through the most non-productive one hundred twenty writing minutes ever. I was unmoored, skittish. I felt like someone was reading over my shoulder and making gagging noises. I hit the delete key constantly.
But I stayed put.
And I waited. I waited for it, whatever "it" was, to pass. I kept thinking in five minutes, in five more minutes. And then, of course, five minutes would pass and nothing would change. This happened over and over and over again. At some point I should have cut my losses because these two hours—two truly uninterrupted hours in which I have no other available obligation—ugh. Forget it. As if I'm dealing with some rare and insurmountable hardship. As if 'hardship' is even a word I can legitimately use in describing my life. As if any of this is remotely interesting. As if this is anything other than me. Complaining again. When there's nothing to complain about.
*rolls eyes, heads off to bed*