I thought I was adjusting back to Paris so well last week. But I can’t find a rhythm. I have no motivation. Nothing is moving or inspiring me. And, as a result, I find myself in these clouds of paralysis and dourness. I feel blasé.
It’s frustrating. I’m back in Paris where the spirit of la rentrée—the return! new beginnings!—is thick in the air. I want to write, study French, travel and meet people—these are my four main goals for the season. Instead, I’ve been avoiding my French workbook like la grippe and procrastinating on my writing assignments—the very few that I have. I’ve been tired, achy, stressed and—blasé.
I don’t care about working out or my diet. In fact, I’m eating like crap and I’m going to the gym only half the time I was before New York. Worst of all, my passion for the Velibs has waned. The traffic has been too heavy and it’s now dusk when I leave work at night—the streets have been a bit precarious and I don’t have the heart—or nerves—for it.
Then there are all the housekeeping things I need to do—bills, doctor appointments, correspondence…you know, stuff like trying to figure out who to call at the Velib ‘office’ to find out what the $57 charge on my credit card is all about. But I just can’t be bothered. There is no time. It takes too much energy. And yet I find two hours every night to settle on the couch and binge on assorted bonbons and season two of Mad Men.
I’ve lost my optimism. It’s not gone. But it’s hiding, and I can’t be bothered to seek it out right now. Blah. Blasé.