Single Girl, Sloth

Otherwise known as...Starting Somewhere.

I believe this is my fifth week of summer vacation.  I returned home from a week in New England, taking my mother on a cruise to Canada, as well as walking her feet off all over the state of Massachusetts, three weeks ago.  It was also three weeks ago that I discovered a minor flood in my mother's house, resulting in a great deal of consulting with contractors, plumbers, and insurance folk.  After dealing with that crisis, I had a number of friends over to see the new digs.  Most of the pictures are on the walls, furniture in place, shower curtains hung.  My kitchen loves being useful.

It feels good to have a kitchen of my own again.


I am home.

About ten days ago I discovered Downton Abbey, a PBS series that the rest of America was introduced to in early 2011.  Sometimes I am late catching on to pop culture crazes.  (Then again, sometimes I never catch on-- and that's okay!)  Watching Downton is like getting a miniature history lesson in early 1900 upper-crust British living.  The clothes, the language, the sacrifice, the scandal.  The second season gets just a wee bit soapy for my taste, but remains compelling television nonetheless.  For just over a week, Downton Abbey became my addiction.  I could very easily get lost in that world, and I did.  I must now wait until November (or possibly January) like the rest of the world for season three, and wait I shall.  Life goes on.  (I mean really, it's just a television program!!!)

Although it has only been three weeks I have turned into an utter sloth.  A friend told me it's simply because I am tired.  That I had been so busy I need to give myself a break... and that may be true.  This time last summer I had just rented a room in Chuck's house, and I spent each morning swimming laps, then showering, then drinking copious amounts of coffee and watching Sex and the City.  I didn't feel like a sloth last summer, and perhaps that is because I had a roommate to hold me accountable to at least doing one productive activity each day.

I haven't reached the point of scraping the moldy cheese a la Bridget Jones, but I have come close, watching episode after episode of Inside the Actor's Studio on YouTube thanks to the kindnesses of someone who goes by the moniker SirPsychoFlea.  My new apartment is my refuge, my shelter from the storm.  There is a great sense of peace here,  and I love that.  My only desire at this point is to get off my sweet behind and do something.  Don't get me wrong... the apartment/condo/whatever one may call it is very clean and orderly.  The floors are mopped and the kitchen restored to its previous state of cleanliness after each usage, bed linens changed at a respectable frequency, and of course, the laundry is cared for when necessary.  It's just that beyond the day to day chores, I have been allowing a great deal of relaxation into my life.  I know that in just a couple of short weeks, commitments will come flooding back, and these slow easy days will end. I'm not sure what it says about myself that I am uneasy having a couple of well-deserved weeks to breathe.

GDA came back from Argentina on Monday, and my mother will return Saturday.  She will be staying with me for a short while until her dwelling is once again inhabitable, provided the insurance company gets off its own duff and approves the necessary repairs so that the contractors can do their part.  I am learning that dealing homeowner's insurance claims is an exercise in patience, as well as assertiveness.  And well, it goes without saying that having GDA around again is just plain fantastic. 

Today I began logging my caloric intake into an app on my iPhone.  Along with a drastic reduction in activity this summer, I've had the natural consequence:  A bit of a weight gain.  Nothing major and certainly nothing that won't be taken care of as soon as I return to my usual state of activity, but still, it's never a good feeling to get on the scale and see a number that is higher than one's comfort zone.  So perhaps the logging of calories will spur a spasm of fitness in this otherwise unfit summer.  And perhaps it won't.  All I know is that I must start somewhere... and perhaps, the sloth-dom will end.