Frigid air whistles
through the cracked window, chilling
tiles, my toes, and bones
It is one week until my birthday, which seems awfully surreal.
Though this year is surely a thousand times better than this time last year, I'm not feeling it. I am decidedly melancholy and full of malaise. After yesterday's frenzy and flurry of activity, I'm rethinking my assurance to Seth that I have normalized and unswung my mood habits. Manic-melancholy, that's me. Maybe I'll have to rename the blog.
Seriously, though, shouldn't I feel better? I have a semblance of social life; I'll have been booked for three weekends in a row. Last Friday, my teacher friend NA called me for drinks; I'm meeting my old camp boss for drinks in the city this Friday; and meeting a small group of teachers, bloggers, and assorted others next weekend to celebrate my twenty-sixth year's dawning.
God, last year was horrible. It could have been a grand gala in honor of my quarter-centennial. Unfortunately, it was ... nothing. Nothing at all. Not a dinner with family. Not drinks with friends. Not the day of. Not the weekend before. Not even the weekend after. Nothing. And it was horrible.
This year is not last year.
I have a few people that I call friends. They are coming to a little gathering for me. I am really happy about that.
At my job, I am well-respected by both my colleagues and superiors. I have been chosen to be part of several schoolwide extracurricular projects...
Shouldn't I feel grateful and fulfilled?
At home, away from teacher-me, I feel...blank. I don't even know how I feel about my job, my life, New York, anything.
I just don't know.