I’m packing everything I own. I thought that for someone who reads a lot, I don’t own many books. Turns out I was wrong; I’ve just filled twelve boxes with books. This doesn’t bode well for the stuff I do think I have a lot of.

Packing is hard work, physically and emotionally, but it doesn’t fit the exclusive and extremely narrow definition that my mind has for “real work”. Packing was about to join housework and self-care on the list of things that I expect to happen without using up any actual time, but I spotted impossible expectations at it again. Just in the nick of time.

The solution? Dancing breaks. I plan to make the most of these last weeks of living alone, performing my solo expressionist dance creations for two unimpressed (if not disturbed) cats, and the occasional driver stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway who glances up at my windows as I go twirling by.

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