On days like this when I am cooped inside a cubicle staring out the window, I dream of life otherwise. I dream of waking up each morning, doing pilates, making breakfast, and reading. Then taking Tucker on a walk, write a bit. Run some errands. Run. Write. Repeat. Unbeatable. Instead, my cycle is more like wake up grudgingly, dress, comb hair, scarf down an egg, rush to work (always arriving no more than five minutes early), fake busyness while moaning I have nothing to do, stare out the window, drive home in the dead heat with my windows rolled down while panting, scarf down dinner, exercise, household chores, watch a bit of the telly, go to bed too late to feel refreshed the following day.
It’s unfortunate, really, that more people can’t make money the way they’d like to. What is life if always anticipating the weekend and never enjoying the moment? I would love nothing more than to have my passion be my career and vice versa. Every time I talk to my mom she tells me “I hope you find a job that you really love.” I do too. And preferably that entails working less than forty hours and requires me taking quite a few days off.
What some consider work, others consider play. Like you would think working the yard all weekend sounded like work, while since our house is still new and exciting, I rather enjoy it. I need to find a job that others think is work so they don’t want to do it, while I love it and get paid more because no one else wants the job. Or perhaps I need to quit looking for new jobs and realize I just have to become content. Or maybe not. I’m not sure how that is supposed to work. I want to know everything about everything, and only having the same job year after year limits learning. I don’t know what I want. I just know I’d like to be outside right now rather than staring at it through this window.