Dear Diary,

Friday I drove home and parked on the dry, dusty road beside my house. It is still new to me, this house. Some days, like this sleepy Saturday morning, it is just amazing to me that I changed jobs and towns and places to lie down.

Sometimes this life feels like a skin that doesn’t quite fit. It’s still new and a little sharp and shiny. It is getting hard to remember the stress and anxiety that drove me to all these new changes; after a year, all that really remains is a feeling of unease and fatigue when I think of 2015-2016.

I loved this house the moment I saw it, but I could not really tell you why. I had wandered through ten or fifteen or twenty Craftsman type houses, but none of them seemed right. But the moment I looked at the listing photograph, I knew this was where I wanted to be. My own real estate agent was down with a terrible flu, so I called the seller’s agent, who said he was “too busy” to meet me.

Translation: If you ain’t got the money, honey, I ain’t got the time.

I didn’t care that the seller’s agent was an asshole. He was simply an obstacle between me and what I wanted. Within days I put in an offer, and after a month of legal gymnastics, it really was mine.

Three months later I finished a number of cosmetic improvements–an exquisite wrought-iron gate around the front yard, kitchen overhauled with new cabinets and a nice white subway tile back splash behind a new stainless steel stove, and a lake of stamped concrete out the back. With quirky touches throughout, this place is the best reflection of my personality.

I come home and I think, Yes, this could be my life.

Could be.

I never imagined living all alone, but, frankly, I never really put that much thought into my life. It’s always about right now, which is what makes me maniacally good at my job but also makes me kind of terrible at being a person.

Outside of work, nothing drives me. Sometimes, I sink into my soft mattress and simply cease to exist. The hours drift by, and I ignore hunger and thirst for the allure of apathy, the right to give up all my decision-making abilities.

Saturdays nights I usually spend with Lover. He calls, I pick up, we make plans. I choose a dress, spend an hour satisfying all the pre-sex rituals for shaving and making pretty. For a while, I am something new, someone special, as I nuzzle his collarbone and laugh at things we both find funny.

Come Monday, I will be myself again, driven and obsessed with data details. But now that Lover has laid it on the table that we will likely never live together, I can’t help but wonder what the future holds.

For now, I’m treading water, practicing being in the present as if next weekend, next month, next year do not exist. It is the ostrich way of life; I know that. And things will change; I know that, too.

For now, I’m not ready.

And it’s Saturday night–I have a date to get ready for.

After all, reality will be here soon enough, along with a never-ending chain of Mondays.