I usually finish work about 5 p.m., but I hate to go home. One night a week I have psycho-therapy. Two nights a week, I go to 12-step meetings for my various emotional addictions. And one night a week I go to writing class.
If I go home, it’s all predictable. I’ve been there and done that. Out and about, I can meet new people. I can learn stuff.
I hate my plantar fascitis. Five physical therapist visits in the past six week and I have to stay off my feet as much as possible for the next three weeks. This is cutting down on my ability to get out and about.
I prefer to stay at work and blog rather than to come home.
And I have a lovely apartment, my best living situation in 16 years, but nothing amazing is likely to happen there. Out in the wider world, there’s excitement. Unpredictability. I want to be with people. I’ve had too much isolation in my life. Oy, my four months of full-time efforts to set up an Alexander Technique practice, they were brutally lonely.
When I have a day off, I find myself missing work.
What’s the image in my head? My boring apartment. Familiarity breeds contempt. I want more.
