I took this weekend off, for the most part, if you don’t count Friday night. (OK, OK, if you don’t count anything up til 5 a.m on Saturday morning. All-night diners are my kryptonite.) I promised myself that I’d do some writing, lie around, take naps and so on. I did all those things, but I also got an amazing amount of work done, including reorganizing my papers, selling my old TV on craigslist, cleaning my whole apartment, and returning every phonecall and email I’ve neglected over the past week. Kind of amazing, actually. The secret of productivity seems to be to decide not to do anything productive at all.
Because of my productive weekend, however, I have no good stories for you. Sorry about that. I haven’t left my apartment in over 24 hours, unless you count opening the door for the couple that came to take my TV away, so I have no run-ins with the homeless, or funny stories about boys, or amusing anecdotes from the subway. I have, however, slept for more than 20 hours total and eaten so many vegetables that I’m practically a rabbit.
It was half past time for this. I was getting so worn out that I felt cranky all the time. Too much work and too much fun.
In fact, the other day, I was walking along the street, rethinking something from work and feeling half-awake and in need of a vitamin shot, when I realized that I was talking to myself. It was a cold day, so I was wearing a long coat and a small black hat and scarf. And then, from the opposite direction, along came a woman, just about 60 years old, wearing a long coat and a small black hat and scarf. She was elegantly dressed, but clearly a crazy person. And she was talking to herself. And I thought, “OK, that’s it, I’m taking this weekend off.” And, of course, then I realized that I’d said that aloud.
Hey — I found a crazy person story for you guys, anyway! Don’t say I never gave you nuthin’.