It is past 9:30 AM. Kids are in school, the kitchen is as clean as I can muster energy for, the laundry is done and I am showered and ready with nowhere to go. I walk around the home mentally going over the list of people I could call. I give up and put the cordless away. I calculate the time I have before I have to pick Laddu up. I could watch a movie (English because Indian ones would take too long). I could start a new show on Netflix. I could read the thriller I started late last night (Presumed, Innocent by Scott Turow) or I could actually dig my old manuscript out and work on it.
I do none of the above.
I walk instead. I pass the sofa, make a turn that takes me into the foyer, turn into the dining room, head back to the kitchen and back into the living room. I do it for a good thirty minutes mulling on the malaise that has taken over. The kind of heaviness that comes from knowing that there is a lot to do but you just can’t seem to find it in you to actually do it. I mull over the stories I have been reading lately. On adoption, on marital infidelity, on first loves. I reluctantly go back to the one thought I have been holding back. Going back to work. It has been on my mind. It pops up every now and then. A stray idea that lingers a little longer each day. I install LinkedIn on my phone. I am loathe to actually put my resume back up.
I reach out to old contacts but hold off on follow ups. I browse through open positions diligently filtering for distance and skill sets. Nothing calls out to me. I long for the days when I applied without thought, walked into interviews with nothing but confidence and came home knowing I gave my best.
I look around the room. The framed MBA sits on top of my book shelf. Old reference manuals are folders on my laptop. I am reluctant to open them. I list the things I am looking for. A job that involves social media, people and writing. How hard could it be? Turns out plenty hard.
I close my eyes and relive the drop-off at school this morning. The plaintive cries soothed by me sitting in class reading to Laddu only to feel the press of little bodies as they all leaned on me to listen. The absolute lack of pressure to be at some place in some time. The happy drive home knowing that sometimes that is all that takes to make an ordinary day into an extraordinary one.
I am in limbo, torn between wanting to make an effort to get back working and wanting to luxuriate in this suspended state of bliss. The pull on either side is balanced as of now. Until it tips over, I remain in place, musing.