I tried to paint my fingernails this morning, which I suppose I accomplished. Unfortunately, I also painted a whole lot of my fingers in the process. Only on my right hand, of course, because I thought it was smart to paint dark red polish on my finger tips before I got dressed or brushed my teeth or ate my breakfast. Frustrated by my manic Monday manicure, I performed a pathetic search of the refrigerator and selected a slice of flat-bread pizza for breakfast. I steered the car with my knee through several construction zones, trying to chip away at my fiasco fingernails. This is a conceited way to begin the week. If you could see me right now, you would understand that there is nothing to be conceited about.

What is it with travel that makes people, or maybe just me, so restless? It's not like I went on a life-changing excursion last weekend, but suddenly I'm feeling the "neither here nor there" tensions of trying to determine which of my lives I want to hang on to. Which place do I want to live, and near which people? I am realizing that I can't have everything I want. I can't live in New Hampshire three seasons of the year, spend spring in Pennsylvania, and amasse the select group of people I care most about in the those locations on that schedule. Life is annoying like that. Having friends is complicated like that. Central Pennsylvania in fall and winter is ugly like that. I've had the convenience of tunnel vision for the past year, and now I have no idea what I want. Or, maybe I am afraid to admit what I want?

So, I'll distract myself with smears of nail polish, and usually neglected blogs, and anything that can keep me from really finding the answers to the should, could, would questions.