Why I’m Not Writing
In case anyone out there is wondering, I’m writing my first post in months about why I haven’t written a post in months.
It turns out that when you’re an unpaid writer creating content for millions of worldwide websters who surf the information superhighway in the middle of the night when they should probably be arguing with their spouse, there’s a lot that can get in the way of your craft. Like laundry. And in-laws. And naps.
But either Freud or my mom or maybe Donald Trump said good habits can be made in a matter of weeks, so I’m penning a post in an attempt to jumpstart my creative process or at least get a shot at a spot on the next Celebrity Apprentice. I sort of consider myself famous because have a lot of blog followers from India. It’s true so don’t be jealous. Or a hater. Hating on my international success overexposes your smile lines, which, according to Priscilla Presley, makes you look old. Priscilla prefers to look like a melty wax impression of herself, which is kind of cool if you’re into creepy Barbies.
Reason Number One: I’m training for a half marathon
I said a half. Not a full. Running 26.2 miles is for crazy cyborgs with bionic heel strikes, like the ones who cut you off at Costco with a flatbed full of frozen kale, quinoa, and hemp seed right before they mow you down in the parking lot in their brand new Teslas en route to the neighborhood oxygen bar.
I’m not one of those people.
First of all, I like to eat real food, like bacon and Tang. Plus I drive the equivalent of a mobile meth lab, and by the time I pack up the trunk and ease into traffic, the marathoners have already supercharged their batteries, popped a heroine-like energy supplement, and are halfway up Pikes Peak. I’m not saying bionic people are addicts, but every marathoner likes to win, even if the side effects include an alkaline aftertaste and unsightly tooth decay.
I, on the other hand, am not in it to win it, but to log a respectable pace and skip the kids’ swim meet. Plus I could use a new t-shirt. Running takes time though, and like every girl of a certain age who drank formula as a baby instead of vitamin-enriched breast milk, I have to train. A lot.
Reason Number Two: I’m cleaning the house.
Anyone from India or maybe Sri Lanka who’s taken the time to read my posts knows I’ve never been a dog person. Until I got a dog, that is, and now I’m not so much a dog person as a my dog person. I’m a my dog person because my dog is awesome, and I really like fantastic things. Like tequila. Everyone who’s anyone in the canine industry knows my dog is bionic, and everyone who knows me will tell you I secretly wish I was bionic even though I’ll never admit it on account of all of those doped-up long distance runners.
Anyway, my dog and I are pretty much a perfect match with one exception. He has a lot of hair. I don’t particularly like hair in inappropriate places which includes but isn’t limited to take out, hotel pillows, my chin, and Donald Trump. The presence of hair on any of the aforementioned surfaces should be illegal. Like redneck reality shows and Bruce Jenner.
But because I respect the Bill of Rights and love my dog, I spend a lot of time cleaning. This attention to detail is better known as analosity, which I didn’t think was a word until I found it on urbandictionary.com. I’m pretty sure the definitions on urbandictionary are written by high-functioning OxyContin addicts who post unbelievable marathon finish times on Facebook for all those high school girls who beat them out for homecoming court to see, but I could be wrong.
I thought I’d deal with a couple of shedding seasons and get right back to training for my race and loading up on glucosamine supplements at Costco. It turns out, however, that a shedding season, in dog years, is really all day for the rest of your life. Every dog person knows this, but since I’m a my dog person at heart and I ignore everyone who talks about canine bowel movement suppository brands at dinner parties when I just want to have a cocktail and chill, I’m pretty much screwed.
Reason Number Three: The kids are out of school.
Anyone with children who might read this understands that after all the training, vacuuming, and sprinting from those crazy-eyed runners with fake teeth like Gary Busey (who doesn’t necessarily exercise but is probably connected to Bruce Jenner on Facebook), I have to feed my kids. Hence the trip to Costco that started this whole thing. This no-writing thing, that is.
So I may be back next week and I may not. It all depends on how I finish the race and whether or not my kids eat those roasted seaweed snacks I keep putting under their pillows at night. Time is cheap but college isn’t, and if I’m to ever have the bionic offspring I deserve? I’ve gotta start now.