Life Imitating Art...

I woke up this morning feeling fussy. I went to bed early, got plenty of sleep, woke up on time feeling rested, and then promptly rolled over and smacked the Sleep button on my alarm clock.

It was freaking cold in my house, 59 degrees I guestimated. I can’t turn the thermostat much above 60 because my house was not supposed to be a house. It was originally a garage, and is built with the fine craftsmanship that most detached garages are constructed with. The walls are no more than four inches thick and there is zero installation. If I up the thermostat, the heat runs all night (because it’s an old system later added), and it never quite warms the house because all the heat escapes. At the same time, my tiny garage apartment ends up with a $300 electric bill. (During the summer that I was in Paris, I unplugged everything, set the thermostat to 90, and still ended up with $100 per month.)

Grumble. I sat there in bed, waiting either for warmth or for the dog to come tell me that she could wait no longer for her morning walk. After an hour or so, I crawled out of bed and jacked up the heat. Then, I texted SC to announce that I would be late. I added up the number of weeks I’d worked and the sparse number of days that I’d worked 8 hours or less, and figured I was entitled to a day of tardiness.

“I’m coming in sometime this morning, but I’m not out of bed yet,” I told her.

“Are you sick or just sick and tired?” she texted back jokingly.

Hrmph. Work-my-butt-off-everyday, never-take-a-lunch, work-evenings-and-weekends, don’t-get-paid-much. Hrmph. I am so under-appreciated.

Finally got out of bed and was disgusted that I had to put on ‘work clothes’.

Hrmph.

My pants were tight.

Ugh.

My shoes were uncomfortable.

Ick.

The dog wouldn’t leave me alone.

Why do I bother with this world?

I could be writing. I could be traveling. I could be having sex with strangers. After it was over, I could leave without ever having a serious conversation. I would never have that feeling that they were dumb, that I was weird or misunderstood, or that horrible feeling of isolation that comes, not when you’re alone, but around others. But no, I was in the car on my way to work, sucking down a cigarette in order to tide me over until I could go home (whenever that was) and drink red wine until I passed out.

Why am I so angry?

I was half-way to work when I laughed out loud. I’d fallen asleep reading Franny & Zooey. I’d felt such joy at identifying with Franny. So few people got us. However, Franny must have gotten to me because ten hours later I was still in that mode.

Today I learned that you have to be careful when reading Salinger, and also that in some ways I have not progressed beyond the emotional maturity of an angsty teenager.

My behavior this morning, "it really killed me."