What's Up with Me?

I enjoy many activities (sewing, mucking around in the garden, that sort of thing). I'm nearly obsessed with others (reading, thinking about knitting as often as I can, knitting, and recently, listening to Keane). But something happened to me in the last couple of months.

When we drove to Louisiana two weeks ago, I was sure I would spend much of the 16-hour trip clacking away with the needles. I didn't even pull my work out of the knitting bag. It was as if the act of moving the bag from the back seat to the front was so exhausting I needed a 15-hour and 59-minute rest. I did manage a few rows on the return trip, but it wasn't with much enthusiasm.

Even my lifelong passion for reading has diminished. I've started numerous books sure I was going to be utterly delighted. Not so much. The most recent example was Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. It's precisely the sort of giant book I dive into and never come up for air. I've already renewed it twice from the library and I'm only into about page 150 of 800. I don't think the library will let me renew again, and I can't muster the energy to keep going.

I'm hoping that with the springy sunshine I'll get a boost of Julie exuberance and feel familiar to myself again. In the meantime, I guess it's just going to be me, the iPod, and the musical chaps from Sussex.