On the Resurrection of Selves


(SCOTLAND, Ullapool) I used to walk barefoot on freezing cold beaches a LOT. I don't know why when I have naturally cold feet. (Photo taken by the author's sister.)

(SCOTLAND, Ullapool) I used to walk barefoot on freezing cold beaches a LOT. I don’t know why when I have naturally cold feet. (Photo taken by the author’s sister.)

So, I was given homework by Abbey this month: which is to reduce my teaching load to levels that will allow me to resume some semblance of a personal and social life.

She’s been asking me to do this for months, actuallyI just persistently refused because, well, I have a knack for undergoing protracted and unnecessary suffering.

At any rate, my natural introversion has apparently already hit misanthropic levels. After much concerned cajoling and worried wheedling from Abbey, I finally (reluctantly) agreed to letting go of four classes and actually taking one day off during the week.

The first thing that occurred to me when I made the concession was: What am I going to do with all that time???

Because, yes, after a few years of being immersed neck-deep in just one thing, everything else I used to do seems impossibly…remote. I gave up a multitude of hobbies, identities and interests when the studio opened, and I suppose it was helpful and useful to anesthesize myself against their losses then by ejecting my affections for them wholesale.

But now, the circumstances of my life have changed significantly (yet again) and there’s actually room now to usher in old selves. (Abbey nostalgically calls that assemblage of personalities “the fun Alien.”)

Now, if only I can remember where I put them. Some, I’ve already found, but they smell mildewed and musty and feel just the slightest bit ill-fitting.

Funny how reattachment can be harder than detachment.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

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