For years, I have wanted to write, about all the books I read.
A little while ago, a very generous friend spent her morning putting this blog together for me. I was so proud and motivated. And sure I would wow everyone. Or at least the half dozen people who would read it.
Then, rushing to get my daughter to her soccer game, I break my ankle. Yes, after the worst winter in Boston history. Yes, just getting into the car in my driveway. Yes, ironic after all that ice all winter.
It has been almost four weeks. Week one waiting for surgery. Weeks two and three, recovering in a ridiculous enormous cast the size of a car. Now week four, I’m in a normal cast (paw print design, not the most mature decision I’ve ever made). I can’t blame the pain meds anymore. I should be back to my usual reading and writing abilities.
I can only blame being housebound for a month. I have no interest in reading. Who am I? It’s like my brain has turned to mush.
I binge watch my favorite cheesy 70’s detective movies and doze all day – In between worrying about how my three kids are going to get to and from three different camps every day this summer – And wondering how long my husband’s bottomless supply of patience is going to last – And thanking the lovely friends who have been feeding us delicious dinners every night.
I might not be able to do anything about being stuck at home for at least the next three weeks but I can at least read something. Luckily, I usually have a large backlog of The New Yorkers around. Even with flipping thru 90% of them for the cartoons, I have read some amazing writing. It has to be a good step. Or should I say hop, which is all I’m able to do these days.
Here’s to looking forward to my regular life soon. And complaining about how I don’t have enough time to sit around and read.