Pleasure Notes

So it’s only been a day since I began this ridiculous challenge to write every day for a month, and I’m already prepared to thrown in the towel. I won’t, of course. At least not yet. But I’m currently wadding it up into a nice tight ball.

I’m not quite sure when the transformation happened, when I suddenly became the type of woman who would prefer to curl up on the couch in my flannel lounge pants and tank from Target, a bowl of Soy Praline Pecan ice cream and this past weekend’s TiVo’d episode of Mad Men rather than drag my laptop out of the heavy-as-shit bag in which I lugged it home from work in order to write a rambling blog post. But I must confess, the transformation is almost complete. Just a few more pieces of dead skin to pluck off and I will no longer be mistaken for anything but graceless couch potato. Sad, don’t you think?

It doesn’t help that I just found out I have to go to New Jersey this week. Let me repeat that. NEW JERSEY! No offense to anyone who has ever lived there but really, people, haven’t I been through enough hardship this year? Why couldn’t I be sent to New York? Or Hawai’i? Or, hell, Bora Bora isn’t that far away. There is just nothing particularly appealing about the Garden State when I’m having to give up dinner with friends, a potential rendezvous with an ex-lover and some unstructured time on – yes – my couch to be there. Even an invitation to dinner with Bruce would leave me only begrudgingly enthusiastic and, since there are no Evites in my in box, I’m guessing that’s not going to happen.

I am left to shake my fist at the universe and wonder once again why I wasn’t born with a healthy trust fund. Can you feel my pain?