adulting and stuff

Since my last post, I've gotten married, traveled to Costa Rica (where running on a shadeless beach in a very humid 90 degrees is ill-advised), organized my first media event at work, experienced my first art opening, applied for a home loan, advocated for saving the NEA and NEH, witnessed the ugliness the current political climate seems to be unearthing, joined an interfaith women's book club (yes, I am very unsettled by current politics), improved my swim speed (holy shit, right?) and finally washed my car (and of course it snowed the next day).

No wedding photo for you; instead: The car wash!

Naturally, my apartment is an explosion of shoes and dirty spandex and kitty litter crumbs and unopened mail. And my front closet is packed so full of boxes of god-knows-what because whenever anyone comes over, my "cleaning" strategy involves throwing all of my piles in a box and hiding it. And the other night Mouse barfed in the bed, and I was too tired to get up and clean it, so I just kept sleeping. And I never actually finished the reading for the book club. And I haven't cleaned my bathtub even once since I moved into my apartment a year ago. And I need a haircut and a chiropractic adjustment and a pedicure. And there are a bunch of vegetables in the refrigerator that are going to go bad unless I cook them immediately. And I got a power meter but it's still in the box because I haven't had time to sit down and figure out how to install it.

And thus we have the adulting paradox: The more you do adult things, the less you feel like an actual adult.