At thirty, I was supposed to be a great artist. But here I am lying in bed until noon. Wasting my one day-off, watching the sun move shadows across the ceiling. Somewhere in the city, a friend of a friend is feasting on brunch. There is marmalade and marmite, and enough cocktails for all the cocks and all the tails to get good and drunk. But I am in lying bed until noon. Half way across the country my sister is running a marathon, or maybe climbing a mountain, or running a marathon to raise awareness for the mountain. But I am lying in bed until noon.
I am looking at my phone. I am trolling all the pretty, and not so pretty people, who are out in the world doing things. There are weddings, and baby showers, and celebrity sightings. Someone I know, or at least kind of know, or once knew, is jumping out of a plane. They are snorkeling in Saint Martin. They are skiing in the Alps. They are picnicking in The Park near The Zoo where, I am told, it is all happening. They are having ball at a ball, or gala, or at an opening for artist who isn’t me because I am lying in bed until noon. There are suicide bombings in the Middle East. An Ebola break out in Africa. Somewhere in the Ukraine, there are people who are putting their lives on line for things they believe in. And I feel guilty and I feel useless, but today I’ll let them have it. It is nice in here without all that stuff. And so I am lying in bed until noon. At forty, I will be a great artist.