I need a hobby.
Even when your job (community development! anti-poverty! the Internet!) is your passion, it still can feel like a job when you do it 40 hours a week.
My free time pie chart would show significant wedges devoted to reading in bed (how did it take me this long to read East of Eden?!) and making wedding spreadsheets, which makes a pretty dull party guest of me. I set an alarm to attend an info session to ESL tutor at the literacy nonprofit I where I volunteered in college. It was at 9 am on Saturday; not early for real people, I realize, but an absurd notion that morning next to my warm long-absent boyfriend, still fogged with wine from the night before.
I learned the three chords of The Boy with the Arab Strap on guitar last week, but my strumming sounded tinny and pinched. Soon the guitar was on the floor and I was watching The Jerk and eating Peppermint Patties.
Yesterday my dress came and the whole business seemed comically nontraditional - I picked up the thing at the post office, grinning at my fellow line-waiters like a moron. I hopped onto a chair all swaddled in ivory, my near-groom snapped a picture and texted it to my folks, who emoticon-ed their approval. Not quite sipping champagne at a fussy boutique while my mom weeps, but I'll take it. But shit, here I go punishing all three of my readers with bride-y things.