Committment issues . . .

Dear you,

Happy May Day.  Is that appropriate?


Probably not, considering our Covid world.  However, this is the workers’ day.  And I can only echo litanies of praise for those nurses, doctors, mental health folks, food suppliers, cops, firemen/women etc., those committed workers who keep us going.


Committed.  Commitment.  


Where do we all fall on the commitment curve?  Time for self-reflection.

Commitment to some non-specific outcome or future.  Uhm, not something I do well.  Yes, I have committed myself to goals, academic, professional, or even physical.  But those were easy because they seemed so tied to present reality; the pursuits produced immediate pleasure pay-backs. On the other hand, these actions give me a “commitment itch”, apparently promising zero endorphin rushes:

      1.  Stocking up on toilet paper.

2.  Signing up for Medicare.
3. Taking Vivo cat to the Vet.
4.  Maintaining connections with more than four people.
5.  Buying a stupid house.


Don’t be alarmed about Vivo.  She is in fabulous shape and living a fluffy queen life.  And don’t be alarmed for me either.  I will do what I must when life puts a metaphorical gun to my head.  However, that toilet paper thing is a mystery.  Never, ever in my life have I purchased anything larger than a 4-roll pack.  Even during Covid-19 hoarding.  What does this mean?  Am I imagining that in time I will outgrow the need to eliminate waste?  


Maybe I just live for the moment.

Maybe I just live . . .

Maybe I just quote show tune song lyrics:       “Hey, maybe I’ll dye my hair/maybe I’ll move somewhere/maybe I’ll get a car/maybe I’ll drive so far they’ll all lose track/me . . . I’ll bounce right back . . .”  (Best Little Whorehouse in Texas 😊)

Or maybe I’ll simply accept the fact that, in my case, commitment might just be a ball and chain.  


I know what to do.  And I will do it when I am damn well ready.  So, if other survival oriented, pandemic driven shoppers look askance at my little basket of goods with the tiny four-roll pack of Angel Soft, they just need to fall back:

That is just not me.  

Maybe I just live for the moment.  Or for however long those four rolls last.

Love,

Joyce