Sorry folks, but I’m taking my Wrist to Forehead day today instead of Sunday. Look at the time! It’s after 6 o’clock! I should be in my sweats on, bra off, wine drinking, movie watching portion of the day. This is what I look forward to on a Saturday night. Oh, sometimes something more exciting beckons. But this is what I like.
The sad thing is I had a wonderful Mohawk Valley adventure earlier and I wrote over 800 words about it. I could post them as a blog post, but I feel strangely disinclined to do so. Must let the words simmer. They may appear here at a later date.
What I find truly sad here is that my usual finding has been disproved. Usually if I write something, anything, I can just keep writing. I’ve done it here. My first paragraph laments that I have nothing to say, then I go at some length in fact saying something (of varying degrees of interest, I admit, but let’s not begin that argument). Instead, I feel written out. I can find no words to recount any of my recent adventures. I can find no words to poke fun at this malaise. I call that a wrist to forehead situation.
On the brighter side, dinner is in the oven, my husband is home, World’s Dumbest is on the television, and I’ve typed in at least 200 words of this nonsense. I’m going to go put my sweats on.