a month of "meh"

It's come to this folks: I'm reduced to an inarticulate shell of a wench. Stressed-out and sleepless, I now resort to posting kitteh pictures from that cheezburger site in a lame attempt to maintain some sort of presence in the blogosphere.

Alas, this state of ennui is all too familiar to me once the end of June rolls around. Long-time readers may recall the despairing post I wrote last summer when I struggled to maintain my sanity in the face of the demands of my job. Enthusiasm eludes me. I'm gearing up for an entire month -- 5 weeks, actually -- of "meh."

Since I will be working for the next 13 days straight (at least), I don't forsee having much time or energy available to wring any witty verbiage from my poor, overtaxed grey matter. But I do expect to find a few moments to take refuge in the words and images that others cast to the interwebs. To that end, I am launching a new project, "the daily meh," where I hope you will come visit & commiserate with me.

It'll be kind of like a party, except not.

1000 words + 1

Meh.

Painting by Joseph Lorusso, found here.

Full Frontal Reminiscence

Summertime inevitably brings back memories of youth, of the long carefree season where the usual rules didn't apply: no waking up to the clang of an alarm clock, no evenings spent toiling over homework, no … clothes. Back when air conditioning was something we enjoyed only on rare shopping trips, and our family's nearest neighbors were half a mile away, summer was a clothing-optional kind of time at our house. Accordingly, my younger sister, cousin and I switched our TV-inspired role-playing games from "Star Trek" to "Tarzan" in honor of the season's less-restrictive costume requirements.

That all changed the summer of my tenth year, however. Precocious in all things, I got a jump-start on puberty as well, and during one afternoon of topless tree-climbing I came to the poignant realization that I really couldn't play Tarzan with these new bubbies that had inconveniently attached themselves to my upper torso. I left the game, went in the house to find something to cover up with, and spent the hours until suppertime sitting on the kitchen stoop reading a Bobbsey Twins book.

It wasn't parental pressure or any sort of moral brainwashing that made me suddenly modest. I guess I just felt uncomfortable in my new body, and was reluctantly aware that other things would change, too. While garments may not have been compulsory, growing up was. Or at least I believed so then.

Nowadays I indulge in the occasional sauna, hanging out, so to speak, with my friends, in the pretext that I'm doing something for my health. In reality though, I'm just being a naked kid again.

(Edited & Reposted from JS 7/29/05)