Why Don't You Slip into Something More Comfortable

The Bunny and I have been extra restless the last few months. Neither one of us are satisfied with the current set-up: I detest summers as a writing "housewife," and he couldn't be more ready to focus full time on music and less on the drama that is his family business. It seems like every day we have a scheme to get out of this place. Whether that means pursuing an academic-track position in whatever town deems me acceptable or finding a job outside of academia in a town we want to be. Why can't we speed through these next few months so that I might be able to have even an ounce of information about my future? This feeling in my stomach--I'm sure you know the dips and curls.

My restless nature always makes me irritable when it ranges out of control. Dustbunny's game last night--really, it was more like the kicking of a dead dog times two since it was a double-header--made me pace anxiously. I didn't even need to remind myself that it was only local league recreational softball, but something about watching these men getting their asses handed to them over and over again just got to me last night. Something has to give.

This restlessness has pushed me back onto the track, and I logged 6.5 miles in two days on my out of shape and wobbly body. My thighs are crying at this moment, but I feel the pressure of the wind against my chest, and the heat of my sweating shoulders somewhat relieves the tension of being cooped up alone in my quiet home office all day. I'm an extrovert to the point of deflation. The Bunny came home Monday--I was here alone all day--and found me drained of all energy. I slumped against our patio table with an old paperback and a dead affect. I simply had nothing to give, and we called out for dinner.

Yesterday, I had to get out of the house, even if it meant performing all of my mundane wifey tasks. I put on a sundress and went to the market for groceries in the mid-morning. I can't say that I felt sexy or even particularly intriguing. Let's just say that I wouldn't have looked twice at me. The very tall man that usually works the frozen vegetables--we are somewhat grocery buddies, as he is always working when I am shopping--changed it up a bit. I found him stocking the dairy section, and without a hint of sarcasm, he looked down at me, way down at me with this 6'5" frame, and said, "I love your hair like that." Now that's an interesting moment at the supermarket. It just spilled out of him unabashedly where the yogurts, sour creams, and ricottas meet the cream cheeses. My husband isn't this expressive with his compliments, so I'm always taken aback when men compliment something on me without saying anything about tits and ass. I started thinking about how ridiculous situations such as this always lead to cheap porno flicks or trashy dime novels.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice to feel like a woman on a Tuesday at the market. I road home with the windows down and Portishead turned way up.