I’ve been in a funk: a writing funk, job funk and even swimming funk. First of all, I found another patch of gray hair today and took out the tweezers again. It got me thinking that rite of passages are fascinating. When you're six and lose a tooth, you get money from the tooth fairy. At 32, you get a patch of white hair, and it's a reminder that you're no spring chicken anymore. Enough about that.
I have continued to try to embrace my ADD self, and at times it feels fruitless. Several weeks ago I attempted to organize a small gathering of fellow ADDers; dinner at a diner where we could chat about the challenges of ADD and maybe I would be able to find some hot and smart ADD guy who is in a similar funk as me. (Is there a dating site for ADDers? If not, some ingenious tech geek should launch it.)
So go figure that last minute, I get a flurry of "Sorry, I can't make it" from the group. I had already started to walk to the diner all revved up for a fun night, and then I find myself on the cell phone saying to people, who are just like me, "That's OK, I understand, next time, next time." Sometimes it helps to get a taste of my own medicine. The funny thing was I wasn't mad. It didn't seem to matter because the ADD self is so used to broken promises, half-baked projects. It always seemed like the norm.
Where I’ve hit a wall in the past week was being bogged down with a writing piece with a gazillion names, ages and titles. I mean literally there were at least 50 names in this article, and I’m sitting with all of these pieces and struggling and drowning. I try and try and then I hand in the piece, and the boss comes back and asks me why so many names are missing. And once again there are no excuses. Argh!
In reflection, I wonder if I’m getting bored and am unconsciously messing things up again. It’s like the pile of tax returns that sit on the floor that is fast disappearing under a landmine of piles. The maid that the roommate brings in twice a month has already wondered if I am just being polite when I tell her that she doesn't need to clean under the piles. The roommate doesn't understand why I don't schlep over to the Goodwill and just get a bookcase or at least some bins. To them, the piles are nonsensical and an irritant, and, to me, they are a norm and the only way to function.
To top it off of course, today is the dreaded V-day, a holiday invented by some twisted soul who was broken hearted and bitter and decided that he wanted to torture those of us who aren't unlucky in love, and being in the heart of bright lights, big city doesn't help either. The messengers scurrying about with roses, chocolates and stuffed animals are in my face.
So I decided to strip myself of ego and ask the pseudo boyfriend if he'd hang out with me on Valentine's Day. Am I pathetic or what? He mulled over it for about a day and then asked me if I was inviting him out. It’s sad, right? A girl asking a guy out on Valentine's Day but what the heck. At least I won't be glued to a couch and eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Haha.
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