Purgatory

I haven't written a blog entry for over a week...for someone who is obsessed with chronicling all their inane thoughts, that is a long gap.  And it isn't that I've been busy or stressed or anything else.   It's just that I don't really have anything to say.  Which in itself is kind of odd.  Especially for me.  I'm just kind of in purgatory, nothing is bad, nothing is great.   And I feel pressure to be my usual witty self, be full of opinions, full of sarcasm and jokes and "guess what I did today"'s to share on my blog.  But here's a secret most people don't tell you about work:  it's the exact same thing every day.   Like groundhog's day.   A cup of coffee, staring at a computer screen, phone calls, spread sheets, tuna on wheat for lunch, afternoon meeting, another cup of coffee, more staring at the computer, funny story with coworkers, drive home, lean cuisine dinner.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.   And that should comfort me, but I just feel sort of like I don't have very much to look forward to.  Tuna on wheat doesn't exactly qualify as a highlight to my day.

About as exciting as my life gets...

Even "exciting" bits of my life feel like deja-vu.   And I'm disappointed they're over even before they're over.   Like last night, after a brief (and terrible) bought with illness (probably some kind of food poisoning) I went on a picture perfect date (which I've been looking very much forward to) with my boyfriend to celebrate his promotion.   We walked to an Italian Restaurant right by my apartment, had a great dinner, then saw a fantastic Woody Allen movie at the local indie movie theatre.   And I caught myself, in the middle of dinner feeling depressed and thinking, "and tomorrow's already Saturday. The weekend's basically over."  That shouldn't be my thought process--especially since the evening wasn't even over, let alone the weekend--something tells me that's absurdly unhealthy.  

But as I type that, I remember as a kid and I would be sad in August because my birthday was coming in September, but then it would be over and I'd have to wait a whole year for it to come again.   I mourn the  anticipated loss before I can even celebrate the anticipated event.  God, that was a mouthful.   Surely, this makes me an ideal candidate for the poster child of some new kind of psychological disorder they will name after me.  "Schuerman's Syndrome" will be the next designer disease soccer mom's in the suburbs will be secretly thrilled to have their children diagnosed with.  There will be ribbons and bake sales devoted to finding a cure.  And a new generation of children will be afflicted, causing parents to cluck nervously that everything from violence on TV to vaccines are to blame.   My picture will be in every medical book, the sad caption underneath reading, "Schuerman's Syndrome, first identified in the patient, Annie Schuerman, causes one to experience a profound sense of loss in response to anticipated events as well as causing a feeling of ambivalence about life."      

Ah well, hopefully some inspiration will strike soon.  Something to shake up the routine a little.