I am beginning to think I am not a nice person.
I am impatient.
I am selfish.
And I have on more than one occasion during the last year been accused of being rude.
Why? Because I would rather read or write than “visit” (this is the euphemism for everyone sitting on their butts watching t.v. and occasionally saying something that’s generally not very interesting). My mom is here in honor of Christmas, and we’ve had on the t.v.–there’s nothing on. We left it on Tracing Places and mom leafed through a cookbook. So I read. And evidently missed it when somebody said something to me. So then my mother and husband tell me I’m being rude for not visiting.
And you know what popped into my head?
Then be more interesting.
The people I create in my head or read about are a helluva lot more interesting than rehashing old, tired, boring family crap. Is it any wonder that I would rather spend time with them?
See, I’m horrible. And obsessed with my work. God knows how it will turn out when/if I ever manage to do this for a living. Maybe then I won’t resent everything and everybody so much for being dull then.