Right now, I’m mid-move. I survived the packing phase, which wasn’t great, let me be honest. I’m unemployed, living in my boyfriend’s house and Scrooging on life.
I wasn’t always this full of bile-flavoured malaise. When my employment contract was finally ending after 4 long years, I could not have been more excited to have a month off before moving to Sydney. Sleep ins! Cooking pies! Time to write! Creative juices were just waiting to flow into an amazing tapestry of written word!
The first few days were brilliant. Lunch every day with someone new! Coffee every day with someone new! Time to exercise – I ran 10km for fun! I even finished reading an actual book about barefoot running, improving my fitness chat (to the joy of all my friends, I’m sure).
But then, something happened. The tide of free-time exhilaration turned inexplicably to – well – laziness.
Ten days later, I’m sitting on the couch, I’ve gained a kilo despite going to the gym every day. I’ve got gnarly hands from doing dishes, and laundry, and…weights at the gym (ok, the gnarly-ness is probably just from the weights. Let’s just say if I were in Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution, I’d no longer be executed for having white collar hands). I’ve already cooked THREE pies. I’ve tried to watch The Walking Dead and Spartacus and The Americans and Homeland Season 2. I can’t watch any more TV or my brain will fry permanently. I’ve been shopping. What else is there?
I thought having a holiday would be fantastic. The truth is, too much free time can send you mad.
*I’ve started spying on the neighbours through the cheap plastic venetians in our living room. I’m convinced someone is going to steal our spare key, break into our house and take my MacBook (I’ve started hiding it under my artfully arranged pyjamas on the floor. Genius).
*After doing so much dishwashing, how long will it be before some kind of toxic cleaning agent seeps into my skin and slowly kills me?
*I’m living with two boys. I’m swearing like a sailor, eating like a caveman and rating other women’s level of hotness.
*I don’t trust the communal bathroom handtowel. And if you knew about our flatmate’s sex life, you wouldn’t either. This means constant running to my bedroom to wipe my hands on my own towel every time I wash them. Which is clearly a slip hazard.
*I obsessively wait inside the front door area for my boyfriend to come home, like I’m an old person living behind secure doors at a nursing home, desperate for conversation.
The moral of this story is, jobs keep people sane, and they also allow us to live with each other. Keep working, people. Work until you die. And then keep working.