The number one question I get regarding my time here in Vermont is, "what do you DO all day"? And the answer is, not much and yet, stuff?.
My mom loves to tell the story of her finding a daily "to do list" I made for myself when I was in 1st grade. It said:
"Get up. Get dressed. Go from there"
It was a simplistic list, but one that was oddly telling about the way that I would live my life from there on out. Not the most structured schedule, that's for sure, but a schedule all the same. I didn't realize it until I was older, but I really craved direction and structure as a child. I seemed easy breezy, but in reality, I wanted to be one of those kids with a day-planner. I guess I was lucky in a sense, lucky that I was able to forge my own path in pretty much every aspect of my life. But sometimes, thats not the best thing for a child. It would have been nice to have someone gently nudge me down a better path. Or give me some hint as to what I was supposed to be doing. Instead, I was forced to figure that out myself. What did I want to do for extra-curricular activities? Whatever I wanted. Where did I want to go to college? Up to me to decide. And where to go after college? Wherever. It was my life, man, And judging by my current situation, I still haven't gotten the hang of making solid and decisive life choices. My life is a highway and I'm just taking every fucking exit and back road and hoping it'll spit me out someplace real nice.
It's funny though, a few weeks ago, I had a realization about my past jobs, the ones that left me scheduled and scheduling people within an inch of our lives. It's like I specifically chose positions where I could compensate for the lack of structure I had as a child. So, instead of winging-it, like I did growing up, I took positions where I had to curate every single aspect of someones life. Every minute was accounted for, and because I was on the hook for the schedule, my day was accounted for as well. It was a horrible win/win for my anxiety. And it explains why, despite being miserable, I enjoyed having that sort of structure and control over my every day. There was nothing left to chance. Every schedule had a contingency plan built into it, just in case. I was not going to allow myself to "wake up, get dressed and go from there", no sir. I would have a PLAN.
But I honestly didn't think that my need for structure would continue into my sabbatical. I was so fried and tired after my last job, that I was truly looking forward to open-ended days. I wanted to "go from there". I envisioned my days much the way Jane Austen character's spent theirs...a leisurely breakfast. Hours spent rambling. Maybe visiting some friends in the village? Eating strawberries and cream on a favorite hillside while reading letters sent from a secret admirer. Then maybe some ham for dinner before settling down with my favorite novel. Then I would plait my hair and sleep the sleep of a contented woman. I really don't think thats too much to ask.
Instead, I found myself adrift. No hillside strawberries. No ham dinners and plaited hair. I couldn't truly relax without some sort of structure. What a pile of adult bullshit, right? Who would have thought the biggest part of my time here would be getting myself back on a schedule? Ridiculous.
So, to answer everyone's question as to what my days look like - here, like a very strange Jane Austen character, is a day in the life of Morgan:
MORGAN'S SCHEDULE FOR HERSELF
5:30am: Finally start to fall back asleep after being up all night.
6:30am: Jolt awake. Curse all the Gods. Welp, you're up now. There's no going back. Get up, time to put in your contacts and face today's fresh hell.
6:45am: Make coffee - opt for the French Press because it makes you feel more like an adult. The coffee will inevitably suck, and you'll end up going to Dunken like a proper New Englander, but whatever. You like the process. While the coffee is steeping into luke warm sludge, throw a jacket on top of your extremely sensual flannel pajamas, put your bare hooves into snow boots and attempt to get the dogs to go outside.
6:47am: You are so cold. Are you dying? You can't tell. But your contacts have frozen to your eyeballs and that is not cool. Decide to bribe the dogs with cheese, because they're not going to the bathroom without an incentive. Once that trick works, make a break for the kitchen. Throw said cheese in the dogs bowl and some coffee sludge into your favorite mug - it's time to check the news!
6:50am: Check twitter/the Washington Post/New York Post/LA Times/NY Times - shake your fists at the heavens and say to yourself, "IS THIS REAL LIFE??" at least six times. For a hot second get excited because you might have a rogue Xanax in your purse, only to realize you gobbled it down during one of the early morning Trump/ N Korea tweets last week. Sigh deeply and chug the last of your sludge.
7:00am: Decide which low-level celebrity you're going to wish a happy birthday on twitter. It's the highlight of your day. Let that process. Nothing is gong to feel better than writing, "Happy Birthday, John Tesh! xo"...what are you doing with your life??
7:05am: Shower. While scrubbing away last nights anxiety attacks, contemplate mortality. Is that mole new? You probably have cancer. Store that thought away for your middle of the night panic attack.
7:20am: Dry off and then pour yourself into your workout clothes. Almost break an arm trying to wedge your tits into your new sports bra. Being a woman sucks. Then attempt to re-roll your recently washed boxing wraps that are currently knotted into something that looks like a neon sexual torture device. You consider setting the house on fire out of frustration, but finally get the knots undone, throw them, your boxing gloves and a spare inhaler into a bag and head downstairs, careful not to trip down the stairs like you do once a week.
7:30am: Plop some dog-food down and head out the door. You're gonna have to shovel the fucking driveway again, aren't you? Welp, this is your life now. Start the car. Use your barehand to whack off the snow on the windshield because you don't know where the hell your gloves went. Start on the driveway - really give it your all with the first twenty shovels. Eventually, on shovel 800, decide you're just going to kick it into 4x4 and pray for the best, because shoveling is for the birds.
7:45am: Finally maneuver your frozen corpse into the car. It's still cold. You knew it would be and yet here you are, mad that its cold. Kick the heat up to high and gun it out of the driveway. Fishtail in the snow and have a momentary rush of excitement while the Dukes of Hazard theme plays in your head. Shit yeah, motherfucker!
7:50am: Pull through the Dunken Donuts drive-thru. Explain you want a large hot coffee with a LITTLE skim milk and sugar. They get it wrong every time and yet you come through every morning. Should it be that hard? No, no it shouldn't. But such is life. They're in there wearing bullshit Patriots jerseys and fucking up coffee orders. Just get the damn overly sugared coffee, click on your boxing inspiration playlist and head towards Burlington.
8:15am: Due to the fact that you lead-footed the drive to Burlington while listening to Miguel, you're VERY early. Like VERY early. So you decide to drive a little further North to pass the time.
8:50am: Congratulations, while you were listening to Carly Rae Jepson and not paying attention, you made it all the way to the Canada border. Turn around and barely make it to the gym on time.
9:30am: Box with the trainer.
9:50am: Regret coming to training today as your body starts shutting down after the 10th heavy bag round. Is your wrist broken? File that away for late night worries.
10:45am: Decide you're glad you boxed today and take your sweaty ass back to the car. Turn on your favorite post-workout music, 1990's country. You may be sweaty, red and on deaths doorstep, but that won't stop you from singing the Judds at the top of your lungs, no sir!
11:30am: It's 15 degrees and snowy - so you of course take the exit towards Waitsfield so you can do some really irresponsible solo hiking!
11:45am: Pull over into the parking lot by the hiking path. Oh weird? You're the only one here. So strange. The weather is awful and most people work during the day. I can't believe you're the only one venturing out into this hellscape.
11:55am: After stumbling over chunks of ice, being convinced there's a Moose hunter on your tracks and realizing you can't feel your right leg, you wonder if this "hike" was a smart idea.
11:56am: WAIT! You see a cute bird ahead and decide to go and chase after it like you're in a fucking cartoon. Screw hypothermia!
12:15pm: Stumble back to the car looking like you just made it off Everest. Thank every God you've ever heard of for keeping you alive during that stupidity. Crank the heat. Chug your half frozen water. What now?
12:30pm: Fuck it, I guess you'll drive the 30min to the super quaint coffee shop/general store that gives you panic attacks due to its preciousness. They put maple syrup in their drinks. It's worth it.
1:00pm: Now that you've got your syrup with a dash of coffee, it's time to visit your favorite horse farm.
1:45pm: You've given the horses their apples and now you look like a real creep just sitting there. Decide its time to venture back to the "big city".
2:45pm: Pull into the driveway. It's 2:45pm which means you have about an hour before its pitch black outside. Let the dogs outside and contemplate what to do with the rest of your day. Is it too early to go to bed?
3:00pm: Shower, change and throw your laptop into your bag. Make sure your seltzer is capped - you've already destroyed two laptops that way. The seltzer isn't capped. Close call.
3:15pm: Drive down to the local pub. The window seat is available - score. It's the same people every single day and they act like you're a social pariah. Cool cool cool. Just get the bartenders attention, order a water and a Hill Farmstead Edward, and take your seat. You can't force these people into liking you...or can you? You decide to tackle that tomorrow.
3:20pm: That erotic story ain't gonna write itself.
4:30pm: You've finished the scene where the man from search and rescue extricates the heroine from the burning building and ends up starting a new fire in her loins. Time to call it a day.
4:45pm: Walk down to the bookstore to see if they're planning on ordering the NY Post this weekend. They never do, but you still ask and try and explain the puns are just better on Saturday and Sunday. No, the fucking NY Times won't cut it, dude. Ugh. Peruse the books. Do you need another copy of Jane Eyre? Nah. You'll pass. You do choke and buy another copy of Herodotus. What single lady doesn't need another copy of Greek histories? It's perfect for throwing at the wall when you're convinced there's a squirrel in your room at night. Is there a squirrel living there? Maybe a rat. Remind yourself to think about that late night, too.
5:00pm: Is it too early to go to sleep, you wonder as you pull into your driveway? Instead, you let the dogs again and decide to roast root vegetables. Because this is your life now.
5:30pm: Root vegetables are almost done. You were going to make some roast chicken too, but then you remembered its just you and no one will notice if you just pick at root vegetables while you watch a rerun of THE NANNY. Score.
6:00pm: Text every person you know to see what they're doing...no response? Check twitter. World falling apart? Close your computer. Play with the dogs. Clean the kitchen. Debate about going into the scary basement to do laundry but decide you'll tackle that during the day, so that you're less likely to be attacked by whatever demon lives down there.
6:30pm: Is it too early to go to bed? You best friend texts back and asks what you did tonight. You do not mention watching The Nanny and instead say "the usual" (which means, The Nanny).
6:35pm: Decide to make Valentines Day cards for all of your friends. This years theme? The Nanny! Start drawing Nanny Fine and Mistah Sheffield.
7:35pm: Welp. The drawings turned out great but you're a little embarrassed that this is how you've chosen to spend your evening. Scan in the drawings so you can start pasting them to individual cards like a 3rd grader in the morning. Decide to work on one of your stories. It makes you feel a little more adult until you remember the story you're working on is an erotic novel about sea monsters. Say fuck it, pour a glass of wine and dive deep into loch-ness sexing.
9:35pm: You've already showered, but maybe its time for a bath? Pour some of the witches brew that you spent way too much money on the last time you were in LA. getting your tarot read. Get the water piping hot and boil yourself until all your cares scald away. Is the potion working? Who knows. But it does make the water hot pink and that's super cute, you think as your skin starts of flake off from the heat.
10:00pm: Ok, now you can go to bed. Every fiber of your being is exhausted. Put on your coziest pajamas. Slather on your night oils. Sage your bedroom. Gobble down that melatonin. Get the pups all hunkered down for the night. You're ready to Rip Van Winkle yourself into the next day.
10:30pm: Blink.
11:00pm: Blink.
11:30pm: Blink.
12:00am: Doze off to sleep.
1:45am: Open your eyes. Is there a ghost in your room? Nope. But now you're wide awake.
1:50am: Pound three more gummy melatonin.
2:00am: Blink. Remember the mole.
2:45am: Turn on your "ocean sounds" playlist.
2:50am: Blink.
3:00am: Blink. Is there a rat living in my room?
3:30am: Anxiety attack.
4:00am: Blink
4:30am: Blink
5:00am: Finally start to drift off to sleep. *REPEAT*
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