I don’t know where to begin.

I’m sitting here, looking down at an outfit I never would have chosen to wear to work a performance – but alas, I had decided to keep my suit at work, which seemed like a good idea during this week of American Ballet Theatre shows, but apparently I decided I didn’t need bring anything to wear underneath it. 

Facepalm. (or in my case, palmface.)

Thankfully I do work in a big city with shops open in the evening, and crisis was averted by a quick trip across the loop.  Truth is, I’m a mess.  I can’t get organized, remember what day of the week it is, get things done.  My apartment looks like the MOLA conference exploded in there, along with the New York Times, and receipts and such for taxes.  Mounds of blankets and sweaters are everywhere despite the unseasonably warm weather Chicago has been experiencing – what can I say, I like to nest and cocoon, it’s who I am.

Good point though.  Who am I?  Well I’m definitely a different person than I was a year ago, blame it on loveache, jobache, or insert another made-up word.  Over the last bit, everything seems to have shifted almost imperceptibly, and it is a terribly strange not knowing exactly which path I’m taking to world domination.  I’m still heading there, mind you, but just not sure how anymore, and what’s important along the way.

Maybe this is the new adult me, that does her taxes in a timely manner, regularly takes care of her dry-cleaning, and doesn’t eat out every night.  The one thing I hope is not part of the new me is this forgetfulness – in the last two weeks I’ve lost (and found some) jewelry, small electronics, work I.D. and keys, and forgotten a lot, like necessary underthings in order to work a performance – which is simply not who I ever was, nor who I ever want to be.

Maybe the new me will write more.

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