I'm guilty for that, I'm guilty

January 8, 2012




I just don't want to work this morning.


Really.


What I want to do is crawl back in bed, Frankie by my side, Jasper curled up beside me, and sleep.


Sleep.


Sleep.


Sleep.


Fitfully.


Not the I'm-sick-and-not-sleeping-well-sleep.


I hate that sleep.


Awake at 1.30 am playing Bejeweled Blitz on my cell phone because I'm too tired to do anything else, but apparently not tired enough to sleep.








Regardless of how crappy I feel, I must, I MUST go for groceries.


We haven't gone since before Christmas.


Goblet is looking more like a plump, juicy roast and less like the 20+ pound cat she is, in all her glory.


Stephen off to Quaker meeting, while I either sleep or work.


And when he returns, drag myself out of the house for the horrors of the Superstore on a Sunday afternoon  -- the Sunday afternoon before classes resume both at the university and the high school.


Pushy shoppers who are convinced their mission is more important than the mission of anyone else perusing the aisles.


Or those shoppers who use the grocery store as their social meeting place, clogging the aisles preventing the rest of us who have better things to do, other things to do, wanting to get the hell out of there before we go postal and start taking people out.


Or Stephen, who meanders through the aisles, pointing out this and that, glancing at the sodium content of this new item, or that new item.


Provided he has remembered to bring along his glasses.


In which case I have to stand there and impatiently read the sodium content to him.


Before he'll hustle himself along until the next shiny object catches his eye.


I loathe grocery shopping. 








What I didn't do yesterday was visit my mother.


No matter how committed I am to visiting her, how much I want to have the Saturday evening beans and brown bread fare, the nursing home is less than accepting of people coming in to their sterilized environment bringing with them their germs.


Coughing.


Hacking.


And not even my mother's disappointment is worth facing the glaring stares of the nurses once they realize I've come in bearing germs and bacteria which could infect their residents and increase their workload.


Still, I feel guilty when I don't go.


Even if I have a legitimate reason.


Women's guilt has nothing to do with logic.


In fact, women's guilt is the exact opposite.


Illogical.


Doesn't matter what the reason, overcoming guilt is something that is simply beyond my abilities to challenge.


More energy than I have to dedicate to eradicating it from my being.


Other things to do.


Besides, if I didn't feel guilt, I worry I wouldn't feel anything at all.






Title Lyric: Guilty by Usher