Peeved, Pooped and post-menapausal

Today: Seven hours at the foundry next to the wax pot (my absolute favorite place to be.)

I don't know why I do this to myself. These are the choices on this life quiz:

A. I need to produce work to get a grade
B. I'm a responsible grown adult
C. It is my choice to attend college
D. Despite numerous 'personal crises' I am still producing work
E. I am totally insane
F. None of the above

And, the winner is, (honestly) C, even though at times I have heard other students (of a much younger age) proclaim choice D and I frequently feel like I'm (insert choice E.)

Which is, of course, the subject of tonight's pet Peeve (with a capitol P.)

I've heard several times, in the last few weeks, about students who've been unable to make it to the studio to produce work because they were having a, (insert choice D from the life quiz, above) 'personal crises.'

So what, I want to know, exactly is a personal crises?

Is it different than say, an impersonal crises (which would mean, of course, that it is happening to someone else and doesn't effect me personally.)

The one time when I've actually inquired as to the nature of the other student's 'personal crises' (feigning actual compassion) the answer I've received was usually in the nature of boy/man problems.

If you'd like to know my advice about the vicissitudes of relationships you'll have to meander back to my September 6th post. There, I reveal previously unculled pearls of wisdom from the dawn of time.

So, looping back to the main theme of this diatribe: Peeved.

Yesterday, I heard, yet again that another one of my fellow students was having difficulty finishing a painting because of this common twenty-something malady.

And, momentarily (only momentarily), I sort of blew my usually (ha!) detached, in my-own-studio-corner-stance and told the other student that the, "world will not wait for your heart break." Not only will it not wait for your heartbreak, it was also not wait for your back ache (the second part I didn't actually say, but I felt it-in my back.)

Ah yes, I remember the days of pain, suffering and torment, (and this was only in my thirties) rising out of my dark bed, driving through the blinding snow for over an hour only to be greeted by grumbling, half-conscious corporate droans . . . wait, where am I going with this?

What I am hinting at is that daunting, dirty word; responsibility. Or, rather the lack thereof. There, I've said it in soon to be arcane language (since the English language as we now know it is swiftly going into the toilet.)

Now, I can put on my depends and be out of here with the rest of the old farts in the room.

Tomorrow I'll be painting so that should help adjust my attitude.

Goodnight nurse.