Saturday I was really lonely, which is something of a rare experience for me. Iāve been spending quite a bit of time by myself lately, which I have very much enjoyed, but Saturday was a little different in tone. I woke up and looked around and was all, āUh, what should I do today?ā and thought about how long the day would be. Friday night Iād come home from work, laid down on the couch with a book and ate some hummus and crackers for dinner, and then closed my eyes for a little nap. I didnāt have any plans for the night but I thought I might muster up enough gumption to rent a movie or something. No, no. No movie for me. Instead I woke up from that little nap two hours later, staggered to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then crawled into my bed, where I slept soundly until 6:45 Saturday morning and had the whole day ahead of me with not much to do.
Being unemployed was sort of like that, as I still recall clearly. Small goals: up and showered. Breakfast. Send out resumes. Bake a cake, maybe? Do laundry, perhaps? Oh, now itās lunchtime! Okay! Mail comes at 1:00! Great! Only five more hours until itās officially evening time, which might involve dinner! And when I lived in Claremont right after I graduated but was working at my alma mater, I had a lot of that kind of weekend. I traveled for that job and would spend many weekends watching pay-per-view in the hotel rooms, which I never minded very much. I had to spend so much time being perky and friendly and informative that I really welcomed the chance to slouch on a hotel bedspread in my underwear with my mouth slightly open, watching the TV. Anything that didnāt involve my wearing a name tag and giving advice about when to send in the FAFSA and what kind of extracurricular activities the committee would like best was good time, as far as I was concerned. But when I was home on a weekend, I very often would literally have nothing to do except watch movies and read books in my house, or go buy something at Target. I very often chose the latter option of a Saturday afternoon. I would often find myself glad at 6:30 on Sunday that the next day was Monday because I could go into work and talk to actual people. Pathetic, right?
Well, such was my Saturday. I called a bunch of people who live in Seattle to see if they might want to go see Pirates of the Caribbean with me, and none of them were home or could go. Then I called a bunch of people who donāt live in Miami, and I didnāt ask them specifically, but I got the feeling they might go to the movies with me had I asked. So that was nice, but they were all three thousand miles away. Why do so many people I love live so far away, does anyone know? How has it worked out this way for me? Why donāt I live on the same street as all my friends?
Phone options exhausted, there was nothing else to do than exercise my (rather piddly) consumer power by buying more Barbie paraphernalia for the Disembodied Barbie Head Burning Man Shrine. This shrine thing, you know, in my head itās a good idea and itās the pinnacle of pop culture irony that I hear was so big just a couple of years ago, but I have to tell you that Iām afraid weāre going to get there and itās just going to look dumb and Iām going to look even more dumb for spending real actual money on this ridiculosity. What with one thing and another I havenāt spent much time in big toystores as of late, and so, just like in Target, I was somewhat stunned by the riches Mattel has to offer, Barbie-wise. I spent an inordinate amount of time fretting about which salon to get for the Barbies, and then which Barbies to get. I found some really cheap ones in bikinis and so I bought three, including an African-American Barbie and an Asian Barbie. I thought the other one was Breast-Reduction Surgery Barbie but it turns out it was just Skipper. Skipper has streaked hair now. Itās a good look for her.
Invigorated by spending money, I immediately came home and, after turning all the Barbies (including the Head) to face the wall so that they wouldnāt keep looking at me, I settled down for some sewing. I hauled Carlās sewing machine out and set it all up and was all ready to hem that blue skirt when it turned out that there was the wrong color thread in the bobbin. Iāve used the bobbin before. I made a whole polarfleece fuzzy once, using this sewing machine. Somehow, thoughā¦even after reading the directions, I was unable to make the needle catch the new bobbin thread. I donāt know why. I donāt know whatās wrong. All I know is that bellydance skirt is still unhemmed and I canāt wear it unless itās hemmed and itās still unhemmed and thatās all there is to it. Someone (not one of you all who live thousands of miles away, youāre off the hook) come over and fix that for me, okay?
It wasnāt a total loss though because I finished the blue flower bra AND the new green I-Tarzan-you-Jane fake-leaves bra that really has to be seen to be believed. I like it so much I think Iām going to make a little matching hip scarf thingy to wear with it, as though Iām some sort of forest maiden nymphy type of person. Or else, worst-case scenario, as though I am some sort of person who accidentally fell into the lawn clippings bags on her way to take out the recycling when she happened to be wearing a floaty white skirt. Only time will tell. Anyway, I did get some sewing done, bobbin be damned, and by the time I was done with that I had forgotten all about being lonely and was very happy to get into bed with some hot chocolate and Jeeves oat 10:00 on a Saturday night.
Sunday I was full of renewed vigor and went right out to Green Lake, where I rented a very cute forties-style swoopy no-gears beach cruiser bike and went around the lake a couple of times, helmet on head for maximum safety and a big stupid grin on my face. Biking around Green Lake is fun. Like Ring Pops and cartoons are fun, you know? Silly fun. Kid fun. I did that and passed by a new set of condos going up and briefly thought about buying one. I only had ten dollars in my wallet though, so, you know, I just went and returned my library books instead, and used my ten dollars to pay my overdue fees. The local library I frequent is sort of down at heels. Itās a small branch and its adult fiction section doesnāt do it for me very oftenā¦and so I came home with a tote bagās worth of childrenās and YA. That, if I may say so, was SUCH a good move on my part. I read a Cynthia Voigt I hadnāt read before, and the All-Of-A-Kind Family, and something about being in ninth grade somewhere. Then I started the first book of the His Dark Materials trilogy, and I tell you, Iām not so into the sci fi/fantasy genre (Ursula LeGuin being her own category, in my opinion) but I am all over these books for reasons I cannot quite explain. I was thirty pages away from the end of the first one when I reared up and sprinted next door to see if Erika had any of the others. She only had the second, so naturally I had to go to the U Bookstore yesterday and get the whole series so I could find out how it ends. I am halfway through the third book and enjoying it very much.Also, on Sunday? While I was out at the library and on the bike, about eight local people called me back. None of them mentioned anything about seeing the pirate movie, but I felt vindicated anyway.
And thatās how I got from lonely on Saturday morning to not-lonely by Sunday night! It helped, I think, to have spent about a third of the weekend sleeping, so I wonāt say that this is the perfect remedy for everyone, should anyone else find themselves in a similar dilemmaā¦I mean, I know my readers are way too cute and funny and cool to ever not have full weekends, but maybe you know some loser somewhere who has this issue, occasionally. Now I am all reveling in being by myself and going to bellydance class and sewing and knitting and getting my hair cut (hi Zan!) and all that good stuff. Itās all happy and good.
And now, with no segue whatsoever, did you know Iām going to JournalCon, also known as Web Writersā Weekend? I am. Can you believe it? Iām going with lovely Sundry, of course. Weāre going to try very hard not to let this happen, but I canāt promise anything. Even though I am firmly, unshakeably, irrevocably convinced that I will be the weekendās leper and that hilarious conversations will die down uncomfortably whenever I enter the room, Iām still excited to go and to maybe meet some folks whose journals I love. Itās going to be funā¦one of those weekends, Iām guessing, that will be the very antithesis of the one Iāve just described in such detail for you today.