It's twenty to eleven. I should be in bed. Vision blurred thanks to the removal of my contacts; donned in only a t-shirt and underwear (you'll well remember my refusal to sleep in the buff); book inches from my face. I'm tired. And yet, here I sit filled with a false energy.
The house is quiet. All of the kids are in bed and all of the pets are sleeping. SportsNet blares in the living room and I'm sitting in the dark lulled by the clicking of the keys as a I type. I've been made fun of more than once for my notoriously 'hard' typing. I've tried a softer touch but before long find myself banging away again. I get a sort of satisfaction out of the banging and the sound that results.
You guys are dirty.
Today was a long day. My first day back in the workforce. I am, of course, more than a little wary of blogging about work at this point so that's all I'll say. I worked for four hours. Outside of the house.
Then I came home and laundered, cooked, cleaned, bathed and read stories. Then I watched a crazy episode of 'Hoarders'. One that made me question Sir Patrick's real desire to be child-like forever. Too many episodes of 'Criminal Minds' watched in this home and too many years spent in a dark profession.
So now I am eking out a few mere moments at the end of the day for myself. Before I do it all over again tomorrow. I know I am not unique in this situation; far from it. There are so many women, in particular, who battle the day away only to find solace at the end of the day in a book, in the tub, on the TV or in a darkened room lit only by a monitor. It's those few moments where we can think about ourselves, even if only fleetingly. Where for a second we feel like a person and not a cog in the wheel of everyone else's lives.