B__ is at the Pitchfork music fest, so I’m flying solo this weekend. Very low-key so far; hot/humid, stoned, bored. I should be getting a bunch of work done, but I’m — how’s it go? — oh yeah: not. I’m hung up on an odd cocktail of emotion: equal parts excitement at the prospect I’m free to go out and behave like a single man should I choose, guilt that I’d even think such a thing, laziness, garnished with mild social anxiety. It’s Sunday, and I’m doubting I’ll get out tonight. I miss B__. I don’t. It’s upsetting that I miss her. It’s upsetting that I don’t.
Laundry, house-cleaning, grocery-shopping, and other nobody’s-going-to-do-it-for-you realities of single life await, and await some more.
For all my arm-chair study of happiness research, I do not, I think, structure my life around those principles I know to be (proven!) effective in producing long-term happiness.