Tuesday, Apr. 22, 2003 - 12:21 p.m.
The workweek is always a rude awakening after a wonderfully relaxing weekend. I managed to wake up at about 9:00 in the morning on both Saturday and Sunday, didn't nap once, and still managed to have a great, slow weekend.
Saturday morning really was the epitome of a perfect Lexington morning. I woke up early to the phone ringing; a co-worker I was supposed to help move had hit a snafu and had to cancel until next week. Rather than go back to bed, I walked down to the farmer's market to sample the produce and wine, where I ran into quite a few acquaintances and socialized a bit. I took a stroll a few blocks down to the Starbuck's at Main and Broadway to have a little breakfast on a table on the sidewalk and read the paper. I then had a sudden urge to read, so I checked out a few books from the library and was inspired to walk up to Woodland Park to read some Henry James stories for a couple of hours. The weather was the most perfect I had experienced in quite a while. I spent the remainder of the day lounging around the apartment, watching movies I had forgotten I owned and had a great time playing with the cat. All in all, a perfect, solitary day.
Sunday was an Easter brunch at my "gay uncles'" house which turned into an afternoon of socializing and playing with an adorable nine-month old girl they were babysitting. Needless to say, my man-uterus kicked into high gear. I had a great time being "Uncle Matt" and started thinking what it would be like to have a kid of my own.
That's one of the big downsides to homosexuality. I wish I could just have a kid once I get financially stable and feel mature enough to take on the responsibility. But whenever I decide I'm ready for children, I'll either have to adopt or find a surrogate willing to carry the child, both of which involve the expertise of lawyers and exorbitant fees. Rather than experiencing the wonders of pre-parenthood, I'll have to basically go through the same sort of process I'd have to go through to order an Italian sports car.
Of course, an Italian sports car doesn't spend the first couple of years of its life eating strained carrots and demanding that its diaper be changed at regular intervals. Bad analogy, I guess.
I think what I need right now is to go out to Wal-Mart and observe some of the parents dealing with their hellions there. I think that would kick out this paternal streak for a while.
In the meantime, I'll keep struggling to remember to clean out Jackson's litter box, pay my long distance bill on time (currently only ten days past due!), and feed myself (a ham and cheese sandwich totally counts as dinner). I don't think I'll have to worry about being mature enough to raise another human being for quite a while.
I will also learn to refrain from writing diary entries when I'm exhausted and rambly. I humbly apologize for the most directionless entry ever!
In better news, I should have my license plate waiting for me in the FedEx box when I get to work in the morning. I swear to every major deity that I'll be super-gluing this one to the bumper! Either that, or I'll rig it with an anti-theft alarm.
Remember when criminals just stole hubcaps? Those were the days...
Okay, okay, ending the directionless entry... NOW.
