I grew up in a neighborhood where activity was routine. Tuesdays through Fridays were busy days. Wake up at 6 AM, go to work, pick up the kids, make dinner, family time, TV time, and go to bed. Friday nights were pretty much the same with some variety. My mom referred to it as “go-for-what-you-know night”. She did not cook- either we fended for ourselves or she ordered take out. Man, I miss good take-out.

Anyway, Friday nights might have consisted of her inviting some of her diva girlfriends over for cocktails and music with the children lurking around attempting to listen in on grown folk conversations. Saturdays we went to the market, did house chores, and ran the streets for the rest of the afternoon. If we could, we’d rent a few videos for the VCR and chilled. Sundays were for rest and big dinners; Mondays were quiet for reasons that still mystify me to this day.

I find myself mocking this weekly blueprint with an eerie sense of obligation- like this is what I have to do and I don’t know why. Limbo is part of the hustle. It’s like I am in a valley that I didn’t know existed until I discovered what a mountain was. Are my actions cultural- passed down from my mother and her mother? Is this pattern a practical approach to organizing my weekly life today? Being in limbo is a subtext of adulting that I had not acknowledged. What if I did laundry on Tuesday- and we ate out on Thursday? Would that be weird? Perhaps it doesn’t matter, and this entry is really a cry for help- a subconscious declaration of the fact that I need a FUCKING VACATION!

Every waking moment of life is not geared toward motion. There are times when taking life down several notches is a necessity. I need to be in a physical place where I am not required to move or think; I can simply be. Who the hell cares about doing laundry, about the tragic possibility of misplacing a dark sock in a load of white clothes? I need a time out from bullshit, from creating strategic courses that get me in and out of Wal-mart in less than 20 minutes. I need a break from road rage, florescent lighting, micromanaging “supervisors”, a hormonal teen, and a cat’s whose need for attention, catnip, and my personal space are downright insatiable.

My inner-city blues have migrated with me to the suburbs and I have to do something about it. In the immortal words of Marvin Gaye, “this ain’t livin’”.

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