Slow and Lazy


Longing to sleep in.

Never do.

I got up an hour before my alarm went off this morning.

Last night was a late night for me, up until about 3 a.m.

Old habits are hard to kill.

I had to blog and download my photographs from the night’s adventures, the blog didn’t take too long to put up and I was able to edit and post my photos fairly quick as well.

But I also have a habit of unwinding after I blog as well.

A cup of tea.

Perhaps a nibble.

A little bit of video or book.

I almost never am able to fall asleep right off the bat unless I am exquisitely tired.

Even last night, being up late, doesn’t matter, I was also jazzed from dancing and hanging out with the ladies.

Albeit a bit chagrined at the ride home, I was a chatty Cathy and I think I bent back their ears far more than I would like.

I don’t care for that part of myself, the need to bring attention to myself, and I tend to be a storyteller, um, yeah, I’ll play it off on that.

I like to tell stories and my favorites are all about me.

I’m generally the center of attention in my world.

I get out of that groove once in a while and Sundays are definitely a day for that as I have two hours back to back where I meet with ladies and do the deal and check in and read and what have you.

I was much more on point than I expected too, having woken earlier than planned.

Which, in the long run, for me, is actually handy.

I needed to do things around the house and cook and clean and laundry and compost.

All the weekly duties that call to be set up prior to the start of my week so that I can be expeditious with my time and have time to do the things before and after work that make my work like possible.

I have to be happy in my outside life.

My job is not the end all, be all of my person.

Although it commands great preparation and timing and patience, things that I forget I have in spades–as I stock up my little cabinet of Burning Man stuffs in my kitchenette.

I don’t need to get my ducks in a row.

They don’t get out of line.

One hops out, I hop it back in.

I’m organized.

It makes being slow and lazy a little bit of a stretch for me.

I will get to it, but I have things to do first, just hang on.

The sleeping in is definitely something I used to be a lot better at.

Lolling about in bed.

I don’t really do that much anymore, I also don’t escape into sleep which is what I did prior to getting sober.

Sometimes it was to catch up on all the sleep I was missing staying up days and days in a row.

Sometimes it was to offset the effects of a monster hangover.

Nothing like that for a while.

Which was why it was interesting to have a drinking dream the other night.

And not even one in which I drank.  I just kept trying to.  And it was beer.

I haven’t had a beer drinking dream ever.

I mean.


Oh, sure, I have had using dreams, and I suppose the two are basically the same.

I had one drinking dream that involved alcohol when I got sober a few months after I had stopped the crazy and got off the ride–it was of a dark bar, reminded me of the bar from Bar Fly, and the lights were dim and there was a spot light on the bar shining on a martini glass full of vodka and sweating from being chilled in ice–I could see the ice skim on the top and the crystal bar of a swivel stick set through an olive.

That made me thirsty.

And spooked me.

I had plenty of the using dreams and ideation and fantasy of cocaine, but I never actually used in any of them, nor in any of my drinking dreams either.  Which, in hindsight is a huge gift.

Even in my dreams I seem incapable of ingestion.


I don’t ever want to feel drunk or high again.

Spiritual intoxication?


I’ll take that.

Although, that too can be a bit too heady for me and a distraction from the life I am getting to live.

What I realize now as I saw pattern emerge, is that I would have these dreams when I was unconsciously stressed about a situation or thing that was happening in my life.

I had the trying to drink beer, a funny comedy of errors that occurred at the bar at the Angelic Brewing Company, dream the night before the 90 day no contact with my ex boyfriend was up.

I also had a dream the next night where my high school crush and long unrequited love object finally decided to be with me and kept giving me hickies at a high school party we were at (stop marking your territory, I was never yours).


Uh, that never happened.

My unrequited love, my oldest friend, we never did a thing, a hug, once he gave me a foot rub, but nothing ever transpired.

To be suddenly in a dream making out with him and getting hickies was.



Especially when my ex showed up and hauled me out of the party and tried to get back together with me and of course, I say yes and then hit myself on the head and wonder why I said yes, I don’t want to be with him, and there, in the shadows, another man, just waiting for me to free myself of all those ghosts and dreams and longings.

I woke up relieved that it was a dream.

And I believe that though those old ideas may still crop up, what I saw in myself last night was a heart still open to wonder and dreams and being of the world, the fantastical, magical, artistic thing that is all about me.

A woman ready to let go of the things she’s been holding onto for too long.

To turn and walk down the hall toward that unknown man, place, ideal, dream.

That has been waiting for me all along.

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