the crimson car coat

I have come to a travesty of a realization.

I am boring.

This is a terrible thing to realize. My cat was interesting. My dogs were interesting. Me?

I am dull.

And all those fancy clothes in the closet? Crimson velvet car coats? Gold Dolce & Gabbanas? That are supposed to suggest I am not?

I never wear them.

My life is work. Every day. Every minute. Every hour. Every week. Every month. Every year. Every moment. Work.

I call a girlfriend and she tells me about a person climbing the house to sit in the hot tub on the bedroom deck. It is a good story. Then she says, What are you doing? What are you up to?

Work.

That is what I do.

I work on a pitch.

I work on a spec.

I post a lecture for my class.

I pick snails off a plant. [I worry about the hard water at the new place and wonder if there is a way to soften it for the plants. Oh that is exciting. Jeez.]

I review a student's work.

I read a book someone is looking for an adaptation on.

I put together a story outline.

I confirm a meeting.

I watch a dvd of a director's work.

I fire off an email to my agent about the director's work.

I put together a list of dream directors for a project.

[Dream is right. Damn. It.]

I watch another dvd. Not for me. To see someone's work.

I confirm a meeting.

I.

Just.

Work.

Cripes.

I need to wear this crimsom car coat.