Fuzz

I queried my co-worker. So, out of every ten days we work, how many are accurately described by "having a hard time focusing?" She laughed. Just about all of them, I think.

Shite.

Perhaps it's the late-summer doldrums making an unsettling appearance at the end of July, now that the end of summer is getting yanked up earlier and earlier in August by the start of the school year. August 10? What the hell? Back in the day, August 10 meant we still had two or three solid weeks of vacation left. Now it means three weeks of regimentation keyed to the bell schedule before Labor Day even hits.

Or maybe it's the impending birthday, another of the milestone decade birthdays looming in a few weeks. My son turned fifteen yesterday and I'm 40 on August 18, finally officially and unavoidably smack-dab in middle age. Yesterday's shower found me reflecting on the almost 40 years and trying to identify the unassailable life lessons and wisdom I have accrued thus far. Don't try to make social commitments too far in advance was all I could come up with. Not much to crow about there.

Could be my girlfriend's daughter leaving for college in two weeks, and the sea change in our lives that departure will usher in. Maybe I'm getting a premonition of the ache that will come when my own kid takes off. Maybe I'm not sure what happens next.

Perchance I'm noticing my old dog doddering a bit more with each passing month, the canine senior moments coming more frequently, the clouds in her eyes getting thicker.

So I sit at work and stare at piles of artifacts, hoping some great truth will suddenly leap into my brain and give me something to write about. The boss hopes for a revolution every now and then. I have one brewing somewhere in all these data and maps and pictures and boxplots, but the required words balk at being dragged out of my brain and onto the page. Deadlines loom, expectations loom larger, and I wonder when I got too old to be able to knock back copious amounts of bourbon like I used to.