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This newsletter is the only thing standing between me and my first "vacation" in a year.
I say "vacation," because I am not convinced I have the ability to relax. If my body ever naturally produced Chill Pillz, they probably rolled somewhere under the couch between Exploitative Journalism Job A and Short Lived Career High B.
In my imagination, self care is a little shriveled purple organ, somewhere vaguely close to the ribs. I should be eating better (carrots?), flossing, and getting more sleep (riddle me this: how come I was a gainfully-employed podcast producer in 2015, yet I didn't receive a complimentary mail order foam mattress?). This week, I'm going unplugged, like an adult contemporary musician between album releases in the '90s.
During the pandemic, between sped-up tutorials on crocheted bucket hats and thic wavy candle demoldings, I saw a lot of B2B (beotch to beotch) advertising for becoming That Girl. (Yes, she probably has a podcast).
I, however, refused to develop as person.
But maybe I should've taken more She Has A Good Personality Walks. This evening, while wrapping up some editing before signing off, I began verbally abusing my editing software. I calculated the cost-benefit of slamming my Apple keyboard repeatedly into my face (mostly: how much it would cost to replace). So yeah, I think a need a 'lil breakie!
Like I said at the top, Vocal Fridays is the only thing between me and freedom, like a beloved elderly relative blocking the kitchen doorway after a large Thanksgiving meal that needs cleaning up. I love you, Nana, but can you step aside please?
For the next week, I will be watching VHS tapes, listening to records, and scampering between the lakeside sauna and the lake — without clothes, and if all goes well, without a care.
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