Blog as confessional: Talk about transparent., You can see right through me—and I supply the lens, magnifying glass, telescope, whatever.

My latest comment (see Comments) has triggered this. Pat, it’s more than a couple of days off. I never took days off unless I was sick. I fear I am reacting to my years of repression. I ran from one project, task or assignment to the next without pause. Even after I had my babies, I sat up up in my hospital bed and marked English essays. (I marked essays for money for ten years after I graduated, and I had four children. I received 53 cents per essay, no matter the length—pen money.) The nurses warned me. They said I mustn’t get red ink on the sheets. I was careful.

So now, half a century later, I am goofing off, big-time. When Matt left, I renewed the Netflix subscription my daughter Kate had given him while he was living with me. It got its hooks into me, not its fault. I got addicted. in the last week or so I have been watching two movies a day. Very time-consuming. I am reluctant to get up at the best of times because it hurts. So it’s easy to sit with my feet up on a footstool and just watch. Not quite chewing gum for the eye or mind. I don’t like abuse, violence , thrillers or horror and I turn it off and look elsewhere when I meet bad grammar and insipid characterization without motivation. I like comedies, romance, drama and classics done well. I don’t want to watch documentaries at midnight but I’ve been browsing “hilarious” moments from old Graham Norton shows, with American celebrities.

Of course, I’m even stiffer and I hurt more when I get up. I must swim every morning or I’m a basket case. But I go to bed later and later every night and then I have to muster what discipline I have left to get into the outdoor pool. I know, it’s nice out but even relatively warm air feels cold to a wet body at 7 in the morning.

I’m taking too long to explain. When is a blog not a blog? When it’s a bore.