And just like that: rejuvenated.
I was 100% stress-free on my way to writer's group on Tuesday night. J's home in the city is in my old neighborhood, avenues and streets laid out in a perfect grid, with names I can recite in my half-sleep. After miraculously finding a parking space, I tromped up and down X avenue looking for "836." It didn't exist. The numbers went directly from 834 to 838. Wha?! I checked. And re-checked. And then I finally cracked open my moleskine to triple-check the address. Woops. Wrong avenue. I zipped two blocks east, the parking god smiled once more, and a few minutes later I finally sunk deep into J's ultrasuede sage-colored couch. Someone handed me some ice water, and we were off.
My work was up first, and I can't even express how grateful I am to the four others in my group for just letting me sit with them as a writer. It's a gift, really, to have people in my life who don't think of me first as someone's mother or a fundraiser or a volunteer. I say this not to diminish those roles (I am very proud of them, after all), but just also to acknowledge that I'm...I don't know. That I'm other things, too, I guess.
For example, right now I have to be The Person Who Makes Dinner.
And—per the ridiculous title of this post—here's my one question: Who even WATCHES this stupid-ass show?