I'm sitting on the couch, "Definite Article" streaming to the television, Guinness open near my knee, and I am antsy. I should be doing something. There are dishes in the sink; there is food on the table that should be put away; Finn's toys from last night and this morning are all over the floor; dinner needs to be made; there are countless other projects I could start. I am forcing myself to sit on the couch and drink and write, but it's not relaxing. There are things to be done. People will tell me that I should just sit and take it easy, but they don't understand. It's not possible to take it easy when there are things to be done. People will say that there are always things to be done, and they are right, but not doing the obvious things that need to be done does not make the things that need to be done any easier to do once you decide to do them.
So I sit here fighting with myself, resisting the muscular impulses that are twitching to take me to the kitchen to get stuff done.
It's not going to work. I can feel the things pulling me. The dishes calling, "There are only a few of us; it won't take you long." The frozen, homemade ravioli begging to leave its freezerly cage. The chicken, likewise wanting to be defrosted and thrown into a skillet with chopped onions, ready for soup.
I guess I could compromise. I have 21 rows left on my mom's Christmas present (it's OK, she knows about it), and that's like a cross between work and play.