I’m A Pusher Baby!

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I’m heading in to a three day long weekend — hallelujah.  THREE WHOLE DAYS OFF, and for the first time in months, I have nothing pressing to do.  No house hunting, no mortgage appointments, no packing, no moving, no unpacking, no Tinder dates, no tests to write… nothing.

Not to say I will do nothing.  I don’t have the type of personality to sit around and do sweet fuck all.  I live for productivity, and I plan to get a lot done over the next three days.  But there is something freeing about having no specific obligations.  I can paint my house, work out, study, shop, have sex, drink, nap… I can do whatever my little heart desires, and I don’t have to work around a pre-set schedule.  This is what weekends are meant to be; I, unfortunately, do not have enough of them.

There once was a time in my life when things were different.  Way back when I was in my 20s, married, and unfit.  Back in the old days, weekends were for camping, beer drinking and smoking cigarettes.  I didn’t get up early on weekends because I wanted to get a run in.  RUNNING was not even in my vocabulary.  I didn’t spend my Sunday mornings at the coffee shop reading text books.  Why study?  I had already finished my accounting program; there was no need to further my education.  Life was different back then.  My expectations of myself were different.

I was a run-away, high school drop out at the age of 16 years old.  When I straightened my shit out and returned to school, got married, and bought a house, I was satisfied with my accomplishments.  Damn satisfied.  But with each goal I set and achieved, my self-standards grew bigger.  I climbed the career ladder, left an unsatisfying marriage, quit smoking, ran several marathons, became a personal trainer, returned to university, and moved up in real estate.  I’m a pusher.  A pusher of self.  Sometimes, I think I push a little to hard, but I’d rather push too hard than not at all.

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I’ve turned my life completely around, but I struggle now to find balance.  I know how to work, but relaxing eludes me.  I don’t know how to just be.  I don’t know contentment.  Maybe that’s the reason I’m attracted to a pot smoking YouTuber.  Maybe I’m yearning for a little carefree immaturity.  Then again, maybe I’m just horny.

I push and I push and I push some more.  Cause I’m a pusher baby, so why don’t ya kill me.

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