It has been four years since I balanced my checkbook. I recently renamed my backlog of unread New Yorkers "The End Table". My closets and drawers and to-do lists have cruft so crufty, they've developed their own cruft.
I know that I have to let go and let David, but it's hard sometimes, I won't lie. I leave just a couple of messages in "in", you know, where I can see them. I might make myself the occasional daily checklist of errands and such, not trusting my collection and retrieval system. I have drunk the Kool-Aid, but I sort of fake-drank it and went "mmmm" and kind of spit it out when no one was looking.
You see, I like closing my eyes and covering my ears and going "lalalalalala, I can't hear you!" It makes me livelier in public. It is oddly comforting in private, even though I know it is bad for me and makes it also hard to watch Project Runway and answer the telephone.
But you can live in denial a long time, my friends. A long time, indeed. Hell, usually if I could just wait long enough before turning around that phone call or replying to that email, the problem would pack up its tent and go away. Of course, clients like for you to return calls inquiring after your availability or that project you said you'd finish two weeks ago, but really, how much income do you need? Not much, if you don't ever balance your checkbook.
Yesterday, though, I hit rock bottom. I'd been holding off on telling my writing partner that, for a variety of reasons, I just didn't want to work on our two person show, #1 & #2, anymore. I mean, how could I tell her? I might as well stab her through the heart and tell her I hated her and she was un-invited to my birthday party. Because this would kill her. Or our friendship. Or both.
She had gotten back from her holidays four days ago, though, and I'd had one stay of execution already when she begged off of a meeting, claiming exhaustion. I'd put off our get-together until the end of yesterday, a long day filled with its own bouts of foot-dragging and humiliation and potential disappointments. A good callback fueled me with the fire, I guess, along with that Airborne I've been popping like Tic-Tacs since everyone in L.A. has the plague right now. And I must have been filled with the spirit of David because once I was in the door, I only had a half a grapefruit, some cheese, and 15 natural segues before I blurted it out:
Speaking of wondering what projects you want to focus on for the rest of the year, I don't think I want to work on the show right now.
L.A. Jan stopped cooing at her cat, Mister, for the briefest of moments and said,
Yeah, me neither.
I think today might be a good day to start at the bottom of the list.
Who's with me?