Of washing your watch and therapeutic diaries

Today, for a moment, I felt like we were almost adjusting to the new normal. It was 9PM, we’d just finished dinner, and for once were actually relaxing in front of the television set. And while exhaustion is the constant state of being nowadays, it didn’t seem quite as bad.

And then of course, I remembered that I still had utensils to wash, a kitchen to scrub, and a litter to clean.

But given that after all this I’m managing to sit in front of my screen and actually type something out, that has to count for something right?

On the other hand, I spent a good half an hour of my time this Saturday convinced that my smartwatch was in the washing machine. Needless to say, I was distressed. I even searched through the murky waters in the machine tub to try and find it (with some vague hope that I’d be able to dry it and make it work). But in all of this, I didn’t quite freak out the way I would expect myself to after drowning a 30k watch that was a gift from my in-laws. The amount of weight in that sentence alone should be a good indication of the level of freaking out. But, I wasn’t. I guess when the world around you seems almost apocalyptic, perspectives change.

Oh, the watch wasn’t in the washing machine after all. It was quite dry and safely packed up between my pyjamas in my almirah. But it was another hour before I realised that.

I’ve come to realise I’m using this blog almost as a therapeutic diary, and for once, I’m okay with that.

Speaking of therapeutic diaries, maybe I should talk about this vivid dream I had where my client died thanks to being hit on the head with a cricket ball, and his wife decided to bury him without prior notice?

Well. Maybe some other time.

For now, I’m just going to enjoy a Monday where I’m not dead.

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