Missing Those Goldmines in Ancient Thrace

So, I spent all day long yesterday thinking bitter, demeaning thoughts about People Who Watch the Superbowl. Until, finally, I took myself in hand: It doesn’t hurt you; it gives them pleasure: What is your problem, girlfriend?

My problem is that I need a vacation.

The $$$ I’m giving to Max was my discretionary Fuck You! travel fund. And work is slow anyway in January/February since corporate clients are scurrying about balancing books and devising tax ploys to shelter as much ill-gained profit as possible.

Even when work is plentiful, it’s b-o-r-i-n-g but occupies just enough of my brain to exhaust my creative imagination.

I keep thinking that’s a discipline problem. Like I could force my creative imagination into gear if only I had sufficient willpower.

And maybe I could.

But willpower’s never been an area of strength for me. No, I’m strictly a Go with the Flow kinda gal. Not me, but the wind that blows through me, etcetera. That kind of garbage. If it's meant to materialize, it will. Magically.

Meanwhile I keep brooding about a life I’ve somehow missed.

What did I do in that life I missed? Well, let’s see… I published many, many novels. I married this absolutely terrific guy who had a mega-successful career but still managed to spend many hours each day absolutely doting on me. Our sex life? Oh, my God. One look at his magnificent transversus abdominis – still perfect and defined though he must be close to 90 now – is enough to catalyze spontaneous orgasm!

I traveled. God, did I travel! I know the lost Kingdom of Mustang like the back of my hand. I helped excavate the goldmines of ancient Thrace, what the peasants now call “Bulgaria.”

This parallel life keeps trying to get my attention. Yoo-hoo! The water’s great!

So, it’s awfully hard to focus on the here and now, the tasks at hand.

My life is actually very pleasant, and it’s not as if I have anything to complain about, really.

But, you know, I’m human. I’m hardwired to complain.