We're all full up here

I have a confession to make... a lovely, guilty pleasure, sweet confession... I have spent the last two days in limbo, in a cozy space I created for myself with no ringing phones but welcome texts, hours spent in the full heat of summer with a hot dog and a garden hose. And, all I wore was a bathing suit and a cover-up as to not shock the neighbours.

My house is a bit of a mess, cereal box on the counter, bowl and spoon left suspended on the drying rack with no motion towards the cupboard. The books that I removed from my livingroom bookshelf for rearranging or packing up elsewhere still sit on the floor waiting for something - for movement, for a day out of limbo.

It's deliciously decadent. At a time when I should be scouring the job ads I've pointed my curser to other parts of the net, clicking on that site and that one over there and avoiding the sites that seem to bring disappointment, no movement.

There's another resident living with me in these days of limbo. It's a familiar face and one that comes back for visits time and time again. While familiar, it's not a welcome guest as it points out over and over again what I'm doing wrong, what I should be doing, the person I should be.

I don't know where he comes from or where he goes when he disappears from me, but each time Guilt visits it's like a constant barrage of fists in the gut. Equally timed and each jab a little bit harder than the next, Guilt pummels me until I doubt my very existence. I can't wait until he moves on.

I'm hoping I can get him to pack his bags a little longer by moving out of limbo, out of my yard, away from my garden hose and into the house where I can find a new home for my stack of books. Movement, I think, is the cure.

Just to be sure, I'm going to hang a no-vacancy sign on my door leading into my brain. There's no room for you here, I'd call. We're all full up.