The Downside to Unemployment

About an hour ago, I was sitting in my bed, drinking coffee, and playing The White Album (which I've never bothered to listen to in its entirety) and reading some essays. I paused for a moment and thought, as my laundry is waiting to be dried, and about twenty-seven fruitless projects of mine are waiting to be finished, that "I am experiencing pleasure."

There is something about being unemployed that urges me to do all the things I wished I were doing when I was sitting in the office with two unfinished contracts and a Myspace survey open on my computer. Now that I have the time and opportunity to do all those things (most of which are written on post-its on my bedroom wall), I find little inspiration to actually work on them, despite that bug inside me telling me that this is the only time I will ever have the freedom to finish them. Instead, I sit in my bed, reading, caffeinating, and self-defiantly enjoying myself.

Let me remind you that if this were late in the evening on a quiet night, I would be telling myself that I should be reading. I would pick up a book, read a paragraph, start staring into space and then call my mom, or clean my bathroom, or organize my sneakers. I can only take pleasure in the things I think I shouldn't be doing.

But right now, at this moment, I feel as though I should be finishing a novel, a musical, or at least putting my laundry in the dryer. I'm not doing any of those things, because I'm having a fucking ball listening to the postal workers next door, blogging, and staying inside on a beautiful day (let's not forget what our mothers drilled into our heads: "It's a nice day; go play outside. You won't be able to when you're older and stuck in an office from nine to five.")

If this is the secret to pleasure, then I may lead a blissfully unproductive life.