Because who isn't mourning the loss of a vacation week right?
When the alarm on Ryan's phone went off this morning, I have never wanted more than to be a four year old at that moment. To hang around all day, be fed my sammiches in little triangles and to watch Rugrats all day.
It chimed it's cruel it's-Monday-back-to-the-grind tune, and all I wanted was pie.
Ok, not literally pie (but really), rather everything pie represented to me this past week.
Pie for breakfast, pie for lunch, pie for dinner. Pie meant no term papers, no answering e-mails at the office, no being forced to put on make-up and walk out into the cold world.
It meant the smell of my home. My own home; the one I grew up in, and my own bed. The smell of oil paint and floral incense that lingers in the walls of my bedroom. It meant no dishes screaming at me to be done; no feeling of money being sucked from my wallet every time we turn on the heat in a meager attempt to make our apartment a house rather than a necessity. Depression and pie do not co-exist. Pie meant the fridge was full. I could eat cheese, and as much as I wanted, because I wasn't paying for it. I could sleep in and not feel rushed by any responsibilities scratching on the window to be done.
I could write, and do my nails, and take naps.
I love naps.
I got home cooked meals without the pressure of preparing them; wondering if they are even edible or worthy of serving at all. And somehow, the dishes got done after I ate. I didn't have to touch a single sponge. The house was bright, a candle was always lit, and the decorations found their way on the walls.
There was a Christmas tree, not a blaring space in the living room that represented $100 in your pocket or a tree to fill the gap, but an actual tree dotted with the ornaments of my childhood.
Yep. I really miss pie. Needless to say, motivation for school these next few weeks are slim to none.
I need a big motivation pill to swallow with a tall glass of sparkling gratitude. That is all.