It’s days like today when I feel most lonely.
Sundays and Tuesdays usually.
These are days off. Slow days. Days when ‘real life’ is happening.
Days when everyone is busy with their lives or their people. They’re at work or doing (home) work, they have cliquey friends to drink with, or far away friends at bars across town.
Days when I feel most out of place in this town, in this life. Like I should be somewhere else, that if I was somewhere else, I would feel more real. They are the days when I feel the most pressure to be “doing something” with my life. The days when I feel like what I do is the least worthwhile and the least exciting.
Days when I have no patience for mundane conversation, but hang out at the downtown pub anyway, hoping to just happen upon someone (anyone) that I love. The days when my walk home has me saying that I am a “strong independent woman”, reminding myself what I like about being single and reciting my to do list out loud.
Days when I have already spent ample time doing productive things alone and I wish that I had someone to be slow and real with.
These are the familiar days of winter, many of which I know await me. They are not bad days, or particularly hard working days, but they are lonely and cold and isolating.