You may recall that in a moment of stump-clearing-fueled optimism, I toyed with the idea of trying to emerge from grief-stricken hibernation, starting this week. Well, the future has arrived and now I must translate the nebulous plan into action. Yesterday, the last day of my slothful wallowing, it all seemed so possible. I was thinking about the fact that my unsuspecting husband will come home on Saturday to a wonderful new life. One in which I cook dinner again, in which we play card games and do art projects together, like we used to. Have exciting sex! Go out to dinner! Work on our house! A glorious montage of images of the two of us enacting some lame romantic comedy flowed through my head. My home life will be so totally awesome now that the new me has risen like a phoenix from the ashes of last year's self! And this morning in the shower, I did the work montage. Great scenes of me...typing really energetically. My job does not lend itself to good montages, it turns out. But still, it was very inspiring. And yet, somehow, sitting at my desk, the slug feeling is strong in this one. Maybe it's the fact that until my minions finish data collection on the current project, the only tasks available to me are really unappealing. I could read my grad student's thesis. Um, yeah, not really interested. I could work on a revision of a grant that has been rejected twice, and will never, ever be funded. Um. I don't know...not feelin' it.
Okay, I understand that I can't go from total slug to amazing powerhouse just by fiat. I should approach my resurrection as though I am an athlete, training for something. Something grueling and extremely unpleasant. (Which is why I'm NOT an athlete, cause who wants to do grueling and unpleasant things all the time?) I managed to do SOME work today, and if I can go home and do SOMETHING other than watching TV, I'll call that progress.