I’d like to write about my weekend.
About the focus group I was in with Barbara Thompson, who is a leader in my church’s Women’s organization. As in, lives-in-Salt-Lake-big-wig kind of leader.
I’d like to write about the Single Adult conference I half-heartedly attended, and how I still feel 14 when I go to church social events and how I actually felt mad at the boy because if he hadn’t broken up with me, I’d have been with him and not at a stupid Single Adult conference where I knew no one and was one of the youngest people there.
I’d like to write about going to TEDxOmaha, and being with my friend Susan, and meeting a state senator, and the fabulous talks I heard.
I’d like to write about how this whole week I have strived to find a balance between work and life but end up feeling guilty anytime I try to have a life (including trying to read a novel) because of all the work I should be doing.
But I can’t write about any of that, because of all of that work. Which is how I’m spending my Saturday night. Which sucks.
