My part-time position affords me time to write. If I take it. The afternoons I have off quickly fill with grocery shopping and meal prep, but once or twice a week, I stop for coffee and an hour of writing before heading home. Those cafe hours usually yield scattered writing.
This year I have Wednesday mornings off. I thought:
The first Wednesday I sent Justin and the kids to school, I locked the door, looked in the mirror and found the tweezers. I shaped my brows. I examined my pores. I decided I should do something so I ran my kilometers on the treadmill. Then I went to the kitchen and ate ice cream from the carton.
Next Wednesday, I said, I must write.
Every Wednesday has taken a similar shape. We have no more ice cream. But I bake good cakes; I sliver off slices. I run. I shape my brows. I think how I should put together a few pieces for another lit magazine. I think why bother.
This morning I spent two hours online. I sat in bed and navigated my favorites in a fruitless loop of frightening, thoughtful and unnecessary news. I ate part of a chocolate bar I brought back from Vienna. Finally, I ran my kilometers, did a little kitchen work and headed to school for my afternoon class.
I must figure my Wednesdays out. There is a kind of hope and dread every Tuesday night when I see the promise and the waste ahead.