The Blurred Line between Relaxed and Lazy
After a busy day of listening to people whining, running around frantically, ignoring signs and just being generally ill-equipped for life, I deserve a break. I deserve to relax. I deserve to do nothing.
Or do I?
Is it really the best thing for me to go home and create such a deep imprint on my couch that if archaeologists of the future found it they would think: "what important task did this human have that they spent so much time on this couch?" It would create a whirlwind of archaeological debate about whether I was a queen and this was my throne, or if I had to sit there as punishment for posting too many food pictures on Instagram, or if I had an extremely important job with the NSA that required me to not leave my seat ever.
Then there would be a breakthrough. An archaeologist finds a 2000 year old chip under my couch cushion. She traces its oxidization process to June 12, 2015. Research shows that this was the day Orange is the New Black came out on Netflix. Rejoice among historians.
Mystery solved: She was just a lazy piece of shit who did nothing but watch Netflix. And that would be my legacy.
What I'm trying to say is that I constantly excuse being lazy for "relaxing." The worst part is that I'm arguing with myself about it and the stronger part (the lazy part) is always so kind to me. You go girl, take some time for yourself. You need some time to just not think, you're always thinking too hard. You worked so hard, relaaaaaaaax.
The rational part of my brain, the "relaxing" one, says: Okay Laziness, just one episode though. An hour MAX. Laziness: Oh, of course, an hour tops! while she plots a way to make me stay-- makes the pillows extra cushiony, my legs too tired, my brain too foggy.
I want the archaeologists of the future to find my paintings, my writing, my running shoes-- not my butt-print. And so, I wrote this blog post instead of sleeping for 2 more hours because I deserve to be l̶a̶z̶y̶(stop it, brain) live my life.