Postpartum

Hunh. So that’s what breathing’s like. I feel like I have written my way through a marathon these last two weeks.

But it turns out, I miss it now. Now that I’m not signed up for the second half of the class next semester – now that I realize I’m looking at a hiatus rather than a holiday break – I am obsessively clinging to how exhilarating it was. To write papers again. To feel compelled to continually impress a professor who, I am very lucky to say, I respect immensely.

And when I turned in my final, and he asked me whether or not I’d be back next semester, I was struck that he looked (briefly) visibly disappointed I said no.

Yeah, that was good.

Because sometimes this half-hearted life in a cube makes you forget how smart you are. That all those distracted, half-cocked answers you give to questions you should know better how to answer happen because you are simply disinterested. And maybe a bit lazy.

Which, in a weird way, is comforting. Because it means you actually haven’t forgotten that some things in life are worthy of putting in time and effort. But rather that you generally don't.

Sorry. I know this isn’t very Christmas-y. No last minute craft turmoil. No wrapped packages or pretty bows.

But still about a gift, I suppose. Nonetheless.