About once every six weeks, I find that I don’t want to do anything.
I don’t want to do housework.
I don’t want to cook.
I don’t want to eat healthy or exercise.
I don’t want to read anything, or write anything.
I don’t want to accomplish anything productive.
I don’t want to follow any rules, especially the ones I impose on myself.
I just want to be.
(And watch TV, and play Angry Birds.)
I used to take it as a sign of a meltdown, or maybe a sign that I’m not yet an accomplished adult (are any of us, really?).
But somewhere along the way, I learned to just go with it.
Instead of taking it as an inadequacy, I take it as a sign that my mind and my heart need to get some rest, get some space, and slack off a bit.
Monday will always roll around again, and with it a wagon for me to jump back onto.
Until then, you’ll know where to find me.