Work

I don’t mind working. Don’t get me wrong.  It is something I have done since I was fifteen.  I’m just damn tired.  That’s all.

It’s almost midnight, friday night.  I just got home from work.  The house is quiet – everyone asleep but the dog and cat.  It would be nice to come home and visit with someone but, I can’t blame them.  I would have gone to bed hours ago, too, had I been home and able. 

I find myself stuck in a rut.  I know I don’t want to do this forever – or at all, for that matter.  I am desperate to start something that I will be happy and proud to do for many years.  Does that exist?  Or will I do things I moderately enjoy for a few years and eventually just give up trying to find that one thing that makes me feel like my work is worth investing my soul in?  I know for a fact that working in a restaurant four nights a week is not what makes me sleep well at night.  I wake up every morning feeling as if I have wasted so much precious time – time I could be writing or painting or starting graduate school or making love to my husband.  It is all for naught.  Sure.  It pays some bills.  Yes.  That is absolutely necessary.  I just want to feel fulfilled.  Daily.  Or at least every other day.  I’d take that. Is that unrealistic?