Poor pitiful me

It has been a wonderful few days so far this week, and yet, and yet... I could do so much better, I think. Write more, sing more, help more. Especially the last. I had something of a revelation recently when I was trying to avoid someone on my block. First, some background: the last office job I ever had, way back in the early 70s as the Manhattan Transfer was forming, involved filing documents. Not by title, alphabetically, but by content. So some thought was involved, thought about things I found uninteresting. I had an office, and a big desk, the kind that looks like a rectangular block. Sometimes I got so depressed by the job, and so tired from the attempted thinking (especially if the group had been rehearsing the night before), that I would crawl under that desk and curl up on the floor, and sleep, confident that no one walking in unexpectedly could see me. Hiding, you'd have to call it, if you were being honest.

I have not thought of this for years, but I remembered it a few days ago, as I found myself starting to duck into a store to avoid a conversation I felt I did not have time for. To avoid being seen by an elderly woman I know who walks very slowly, whose desire for company as she walks home might shave as much as 10 minutes off my so-very-important day, I was going to hide. For heaven's sake! I forgot who I am. I forgot what I care about. To save ten minutes.  Madness!

I stubbed my spiritual toe, ow ow. Poor me. Another fall, another boo boo. Another starting anew. Being a person of faith is a full-time commitment. I don't want my final review to read "Great singer, but she hid under the desk."