The man upstairs from me has a piano, and he’s been playing “April in Paris.” I can hear it through the ceiling, and sometimes a peel of a woman’s laughter. We smile and nod in the hallways, as we are both persons of leisure, doing leisurely things.
I don’t think I can ever work in an office again. Life is is going swimmingly, and it directly relates to not dragging myself in to be abused every day by people with no understanding of what my job actually entails. I’m still doing freelance, but on my own terms. Now I’m just waiting for summer time, when I’m told the living is easy.
I thought it was Wednesday, I had to check! Being a woman of leisure is not all it’s cracked up to be. First, I haven’t encountered any actual leisure yet. Instead, I’m mired somewhere else entirely. Oh right, Dracut, Massachusetts. I keep telling myself it would be better if a) I weren’t working on a million piddly, stressful freelance jobs, and b) I weren’t living out of suitcases (more like off piles on the floor), and c) I weren’t still secreting ghee in my lungs. Also, since I “work at home,” everyone assumes I am doing nothing all day. So I scrabble around and prepare dinner for four, like a proper hausfrau. My revenge? Lots of roughage. My poor victims run from the table, groaning, filled to the gills with brown rice and broccoli.
Also, I now know that I definitely couldn’t stay home with a baby, although I suppose a baby would be more interactive than the cat. Even the cat is depressed; she deposits herself in the chair closest to the radiator and lolls there all day, not moving a muscle, not even for mousie.
So my question is: at what point do I give up and take off for the Mexican Riviera? Do advise.