You may be pleased or stunned to know that I am writing this not from my couch or bed but from a chair at the Writing Salon classroom. Yes, Jane left her house. Shocking. She had to move her adorable little Smart Car because the street cleaner was coming, so she decided to zip over to the loft (she likes to refer to it as "the loft" more than "the classroom" because "the loft" sounds so urban cool) in order to "check on things."
Mostly she just felt restless and also sick of trying to work while simultaneously trying to ignore the dirty dishes/filthy kitchen, her messy desk heaped with undone to-do stuff, her stacks of handouts on the dining room table still sitting there even though the workshop she made them for (these being extras) happened three days ago.
So Jane escaped to the loft, where she straightened topsy turvy pillows on chairs, put an abandoned thermos on the lost and found shelf, washed honey off a plate that someone forgot to wash, pushed one extra chair back into a spot behind the banister, filled up the almost empty hand soap dispenser in the bathroom, noted that the bathroom shower liner was growing tons of disgusting mold and wondered why the commuter tenant wouldn't simply toss it into the washing machine that is in the closet two feet from his bed upstairs, checked to make sure that last night's teacher actually remembered to turn on the dishwasher after loading it (he did, good boy), refilled the Brita water pitcher that was sitting waterless in the fridge, wiped ginger cookies crumbs off the kitchen table, cleaned the new whiteboard, and threw out the spoiled half and half.
Then she sat down in her favorite chair, an orange swivel chair that she wishes she had a place for at home, and began to labor over assorted, stunningly boring administrative tasks. Three hours passed, and her laptop battery's charge went down from 100 to 19 percent.
She is now debating whether to plug in the adaptor cord that's in her purse, and move on to creating and sending out the "Reminder" of the her next Round Robin class that starts this coming Sunday. She sends this reminder out, via Constant Contact, a few days prior to every new session, in hopes of roping in a few more procrastinators. Right now she had 29 signups. Not bad, but last year she was getting more like 40 to 45.
I know you are mesmerized by the romance of Jane's high drama existence. But I must leave you now. I must toil on, probably until hunger for something that contains wheat (which I am not allowing myself to eat right now) sends me racing back to the kitchen (that looks like it belongs to twenty-seven frat boys).
Over and out from The Loft.
Here is a photo of my orange swivel chair, occupied by a former student of mine. A lovely person!