I’ve read that moving is the third traumatic thing after death and divorce that one experiences in life. In the next 31 days, I’ll be moving twice… well, presumably. I actually haven’t found a place to live for October.
I’ve moved many times before: from New York to California with my parents; from California to DC for college; from DC to London for study abroad; and from London back to DC to start my Senior year. But I’ve never moved with such an amorphous future in front of me. Perhaps a blank slate is a good thing for a change?
More on this later. For now, I’m off to caffeinate, work from home, and squeeze in some laundry and packing in between.
I used to dread Sundays. I’d snicker at references to it as the “day of rest” throughout my epic Catholic education (15 years = a whole lot of snickering). For me, Sunday meant strategically timed showers and meals in order to waste as little time as possible. It meant regretting starting Saturday night at 6 o’clock, because I didn’t get enough reading done.
During the worst of Sundays, I’d put on a little soundtrack to bask in my Sunday angst. The Pretenders’ cover of Morrissey’s “Everyday is Like Sunday” was a particular favorite. To fully comprehend the angst, here’s the first verse and chorus:
V1: Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon – come Armageddon!
Come, Armageddon! come!
C: Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey
Before you judge, listen to the song. It’s damn good and perfectly captured my sentiments about Sunday. While I’m still a fan of of the song and other Sunday songs, including “Sunday Morning” by The Velvet Underground, I am no longer a hater of Sunday.
Sunday is my savior! It’s a day off in a 6-day week when nine hours of sleep feels like fifteen; when I drink coffee just for the taste; when folding laundry is relaxing. Even the half-mile trek to the grocery store is satisfying. Today I splurged on some Norwegian cheese, Snøfrisk, and bought some locally grown blueberries. These little treats seem like child’s play after seeing the delicacies (and obscene prices) at the Dupont Circle Farmer’s Market, but they’re the little joys that make Sunday special.
The day is almost gone now, but it was a good one. When I can wait contentedly at the bus stop for over an hour and make friends with a Cuban named Omar, it’s been a decent day.
Because I promised a post, I will briefly discuss the best thing about commuting to work.
It’s the podcasts. At all other times of the year, podcasts pile up in my Itunes library. That pesky exclamation mark appears next to each and every subscription reminding me that I’m masquerading as a pseudo-intellectual. I could never just sit in my room for an hour and listen to a radio program.
Times have changed, my friends. I’ve cried on the GUTS bus listening to Dan Savage recount his mother’s battle with cancer on This American Life. I’ve fallen in love with The Low Anthem’s “Charlie Darwin” on All Songs Considered. I’ve rolled my eyes about Obama’s controversial “conscience clause” on Slate’s DoubleX Gabfest.
Perhaps things have gotten a little out of hand. I now subscribe to ten podcasts, some of which take a few weeks to get around to listening. But if you have an Ipod and you commute, I highly recommend you give Lady Gaga a break and listen to some storytelling. Or news. Or comedy. Anything! Spice up your life with a podcast. When the day’s done and you’re looking forward to going to sleep as soon as you can scarf down your pasta dinner, it’s something to look forward to.
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