It's Time...

...to put this silly blog on ice.  I think it's served its purpose.  I'll explain, in my usual, rambling way.

I just woke up from a terrible nightmare.  I dreamed that I found Daddy dead in his bed.  Cold and still.  Like a plastic doll.  I tried to call Deb, but the sound wouldn't come out when I tried to tell her.  I couldn't stop crying.  I wondered whether I should call and tell the Emotional Vampire and her brood.  Or forego the obituary and hope none of them found out until after the funeral.  In the middle of my tailspin, Daddy came walking out of the kitchen with his coffee in hand.  I was stunned.  But relieved.  Around then I woke up.  All sweaty.  My heart racing.  More relief.  This time, that it was just a dream.

Rewind a little to yesterday afternoon.  I fell asleep on the sofa.  Watched way too many back-to-back episodes of Auction Hunters, then Bar Rescue, and finally, Anthony Bourdain.  Did my usual emo thing of missing Mother to tears.  I wallowed in self-pity.  Repeatedly searched the fridge and pantry for something decent to eat.  Considered eating The Daddler's leftover half of Friday's chicken wrap, but decided against it, remembering how mad he got the last time I ate some of his leftovers.  Ate stale Cheese Nips.  Drank most of a bottle of beer.  Felt so bloated before I finished it that I poured the rest out.  Seriously.  Not like me.

Fast forward to now.  Last night I talked to Deb.  Sundays are hard for her, too.  We always try to figure out why.  We settle on a combination of stress over the impending Monday morning, plus being at loose ends without structure all weekend.  And for me, there's that panicky feeling of knowing I haven't done all the stuff I'd put off until the weekend. 

And then it dawned on me.  My most consistent effort over these past eight months has been this crazy blog.  I've spent way too much time on it when I should've been doing other, more important things.  Sure, I can rationalize and call it therapy.  Catharsis.  Whatever.  The truth is that I can't afford to waste any more time on it right now.  And that the truest psychobabble term which applies is avoidance.  I'm a grown woman with very adult responsibilities.  So for all the pretending that I'm just a carefree raconteuse reveling in my life of adventure, the reality is that I've regressed into an irresponsible kid.  And I was always such a responsible kid.  So now, I've gotten it out of my system.

A wise person once told me that the definition of maturity is the ability to forego short-term pleasure for long-term benefit.  Most of my life, I've been a model of that.  I worked my way through college.  After I graduated and started my career, I lived at home with my parents until I'd paid off my car and student loans and credit card balance.  I saved.  Paid my parents back the money I'd borrowed from them.  Studied my butt off and passed the CPA exam.  I worked hard.  And it paid off.  I made more money than either of my parents in my first year out of school than either of them did after 25 years of working for the government.  But it paid off for them - they have the best health insurance in the world and good pensions.  I have COBRA and my dwindling IRA.  But I digress.

My point is that I've avoided the harsh reality of my life.  Which is actually not so harsh.  I have everything I need.  A safe, comfortable house.  Oh, that reminds me.  When JoJo and M and I were sitting out on my patio the other day, M looked up at the bars on my back windows and asked me if I lived in a bad neighborhood.  I told her yes, we were in the 'hood.  Which we're not.  It's a great neighborhood.  I love it.  And now I have a rental house in this same great neighborhood. 

I have a thriving business with great clients.  A dependable, honest ex-husband who emails me every month to tell me I can transfer my alimony payment.  So thankfully, money is not a worry for me.  Well, Kiddo's tuition stretches things a bit, but I manage.  With plenty leftover for running around.  Shopping at the thrift store.  Buying plane tickets to see my friends.

But the truth is, I've been operating on the fly for far too long now.  It's causing me incessant stress.  I can't keep on like this.  I've got to man up, grow a pair, and face my responsibilities.  Get my priorities in order.

Which means my long, meandering blog-posting has to drop to the bottom of the list.  I think the clarifying moment was when I read an email from a friend this morning.  He used the word prolix to describe me.  In a teasing way.  But still.  Since I didn't know that word, I looked it up.  Here ya go:

pro·lix  (adjective)
1. extended to great, unnecessary, or tedious length; long and wordy.
2. (of a person) given to speaking or writing at great or tedious length.

Ouch.  It's true though.

So with that, it's time to move on.  This exercise has run its course.  Served its purpose.  Which was an emotional outlet for me.  Among other things.  But I've indulged it for way too long.  Maybe I'll come back to blogging, but for now, I must neglect it.  And stop neglecting the really important things in my life.

Over and out...