I made a commitment to do this thing, meaning write something every day for 30 days and post it to this here blog of mine. So here I go—even though it's well past my productive time. The day got away from me. I lost control of my calendar. Which, back in my working-for-a-paycheck days, a trying-to-be-helpful colleague counseled me was the one thing a manager must never do. I don't remember why it was so awful, but there you have it.
My husband is muttering while diddling around on his computer, as he does. It always sets my radar quivering, my nerves on edge, my mind clicking through how or if I'm meant to respond. I want to answer him, to say something like, "If you have something to say, just say it." Or, "Are you trying to communicate, or really just talking, muttering and making confused noises for your own benefit."
"I'll be dammed." He just said that. And "Humph?" then "Hmmm." Then some bemused chuckling into his beard and a few frustrated sighs.
I never know, am I supposed to say something? Like, "Can I help?"
I don't know. I guess I don't tend to talk to myself that way. If I did, I imagine it would be a kind of tepid cry for help. If someone else were in the room, it would be at least partly for their benefit.
The sighing and "humphing" continues. I should move on.
Some things that struck me today:
Dorothy, author of GRAY IS THE NEW BLACK, blogs about the challenges and opportunities of being a woman and a writer of a certain age in a youth-centric universe.