Isn't it funny how we all long for things and then when we get them, they're not what we expected them to be at all? Towards the end of summer I was longing for just a little time to myself. Just a little time to myself with no obligations seemed too much to even dream of. I'd be willing to bet a few of you are reading that wistfully right now and thinking, "If only...." Well that's what I've got now. I've got all the time in the world. Every moment is "me time".
And I am bored out of my skull.
Apparently I'm not great company for myself.
I took a ton of books out of the library and even bought a couple in anticipation of an extended convalescence. There was a week there where I read voraciously, but now I can't seem to concentrate on even the simplest of plots. I can't stay on track for an hour long TV show, for Pete's sake. I have been knitting, but only small projects. I have no patience. A project I couldn't finish in a day or two would yield nothing but frustration. People try to visit with me, but I bring nothing to the table. Try having a conversation and having nothing to contribute. It's not fun. Especially when concentration is an issue. My conversations are more like lectures that I zone in and out of. I feel myself doing it, and I'm fully aware of how impolite it is, but I just don't seem to have any control.
Tom wants me to rest and heal.
I know I need to do this.
But I am so bored with myself.
Late last week and early this weekend I incorporated a few outings and some light housework. And now I'm in pain. I hadn't been in pain before, I'd just been tired and bored (and a little sore). Now I'm tired, bored, sore AND hurting.
So I'm back to taking it slow. Can anyone suggest a nice anthology of short stories? I bet I could get through a short story or two...
Baby steps baby steps.
No wonder babies cry so much...