Cheap, and Worth Every Penny (1/01/09 Thursday)

After work yesterday, exhausted and famished, I stopped at Good Foods. I didn't need groceries, but I was hoping to find something there to make me feel better. I lingered in the store picking up a few things I didn't need but wanted--a brownie, waffles, and chips. C was there. I like C--easy to talk to, funny, empathetic. (Funny, when I wrote that I thought of my bitterness over the attention Julie gives extroverts, then realized how much I've been quilty of it myself.) I was moping through the store when I heard over the speakers someone yell, "One! Two! Three! Four!" and I knew "Ball of Confusion" was unfurling. My foot started tapping and my head bobbing. C pointed at me and said, "He's back!" If I'd been there for just the music, I'd have left after that song, because that was followed by some late Chicago and worse. I lingered after buying my stuff. The woman after me lingered, too, after her purchase, and the three of us chatted like familiars, if not friends. It was when we dispersed that I knew that it was the company I'd really come for. At work I had thought of going out that night, just to be around people, but I was satisfied after leaving Good Foods: It wasn't people I needed to be amongst; it was people I knew and could care about that I wanted to be with. I stayed in, wrote, watched an episode of The Prisoner ("Checkmate"), had a whisky at midnight, then milk and cookies before bed at one.

Still, I awoke early--five-thirty--having at least slept through the ginn plane. Today is mine--no kids, no responsibilities, nowhere to go, no work, no Julie. Kevyn left a message, checking up on me. I used to be pridefully resentful of such calls from her and Mom, feeling interfered with and not trusted to handle my own affairs; but now I'm grateful to have someone who cares to listen to me. If only I were as good in return. I will return Kevyn's call. It will be, at least, a reason to get outside on this bright, clear day: The cell phone won't pick up a signal in the apartment. I don't know what else I'll do today, but it probably won't be anything I've been putting off, unless I actually want to do it. I'm not sure I'll even play music. Suddenly, I have nothing I want to hear. Saturday I'll have to get to Plan 9.

I've had nothing to read either, and that's probably contributed to my depression. I've read Songs of Angus three times, and have nothing on my shelves that begs me to read it. With schools out, my other interlibrary loan requests for more Violet Jacob are suspended in limbo. I ordered some books from Book People, and they called me Monday that one was in. That pickup will have to wait for Saturday, as well.

This is the time of year we're all supposed to reflect on and assess the previous year. I don't want to, really. Though I might be surprised and pleased with my growth, I would likely be as dismayed at the lack of it. Little is ever good enough for me, especially myself. I'd rather someone else made the assessment; I'm too close and too critical. I know I've grown quite a lot, but I don't want to know exactly how or how much. I don't want to own either the good or the bad; the one is bought with pride, the other with shame.