Divisions and Precisions

The Chair

Some days the chair feels wrong. Don't get me wrong. I have a great chair. It's a $1450 chair that I got for $80 (no, I didn't miss a decimal point there, that's fourteen hundred dollars). But some days, it's the wrong chair. Logic would suggest that I move. But no, damn it. My butt has to be in this chair every day. Them's the rules.

Some days it's physical. I'm too tired to sit in the chair. I'm too restless to sit in the chair. Other days, it's psychological. I'm not good enough to sit in the chair. I'm wasting my time sitting in the chair. Some days it's a combination of both.

Sometimes on those days, I make myself sit in the chair anyway--cause them's the rules. On those days, I bitch and whine a lot. I sit in the chair and stare blankly into cyberspace until my time is up, like a recalcitrant therapy patient. But it doesn't matter, because I'm sitting in the chair. After all, I know people who dream about sitting in this chair; I damn well better appreciate it.

And I do. I just need to stop being so rigid about it. Getting my butt in the chair every day is a big priority. Climbing into the chair every day is what gives me some structure, some purpose in what would otherwise be my great big unemployed life. But it doesn't have to be exactly the same thing every day, and I can't understand now how I got so hung up on it. My butt's gotta be in a chair every day. Them's the rules. It just doesn't always have to be the same chair.

I think I'm going to go find another chair and see if I can't do more than spend the afternoon staring blankly.