I know what I should be doing.
I should be relaxing. Resting. I should be saving more money. I should be drinking less and doing more hot yoga. I should be taking my makeup off before I get in the bed. I should certainly have a bedtime of some sort. I should pick the safe guy, and I should sit the fuck down and be with him. I should be looking for a place that is safe and financially responsible. I should be planning to buy a house. I should be looking into going back to school to get my Masters and I should be trying to get my life on some semblance of a routine.
But I just really don’t fucking want to.
The truth that no one tells you is that messiness is fun. Not messiness in the sense of drama. But messiness in the sense of not having a plan, not having a schedule to keep or a list of things to do or rules that you should be abiding by. The luscious selfishness of waking up every morning and doing exactly whatever it is you want to do is even better than I imagined. And for someone who has spent much of her life, childhood included, abiding by strict rules and the earnest pursuit of doing the right thing, it is liberating. I haven’t experienced life at this breakneck, gimme-whatever-I-want-because-I-want-it pace in a very long time.
I haven’t even unpacked. Nothing is organized and just so in its neat little space. My clothes are haphazardly stuffed into drawers. There is dust on my dresser. The only bed that gets made is the dog’s. I haven’t been cooking. I’ve been coming home with the sun, if I come home at all. I’ve been wearing necklines that are too low and hemlines that are too high. And heels to match. I’ve been having the sex I’ve been dying to have. I’ve been leaving town on last minute trips I didn’t take months to plan and save for. And spending money on drinks and meals with friends old and new and going to outdoor concerts and restocking my wardrobe and buying wildly impractical accessories.
It is a mess. And it. Is. Awesome.