I need a name for this alter ego of mine. The one I want to be, the new, improved me. I’ve named my shifting personae as time has gone by, and a new theme becomes clear. Perhaps I should do it the other way around instead. Name the person I wish to become. Or at least be more like.
She’s me, but better. She’s the one who’s never late, never forgets things, reliable and serene. Her wardrobe is full of relatively new, well fitting clothes – a happy mix of smart and individual. Maybe she makes them herself. It’s certainly not overfull with decades old raggedy rubbish, none of it as clean as she thinks it is when she puts it on.
Her bedroom, (which, she opens her eyes, bright as a daisy to, at somewhere between half five and six) is neat, the bed always made – never collapsed into without sheet or duvet. The mattress is unstained. The floor is clear and clean. Battles with dust and cat hair fought and won. Books on shelves, single stacked, in order, bought to be read, one at a time, not stockpiled for the end of days. The air is fresh and clean.
She hops out of bed, pulls on some running clothes, takes vitamins with a glass of water while she stretches. She doesn’t struggle with this. She hasn’t been drinking the night before, or before that. Neither has she lain awake in the early hours, taught as a violin, contemplating her guilt, her failure, the twin terror and temptation that is death. She doesn’t suffer from such thoughts. She is seldom blue, and when she is, it is a passing cloud on a sunny day. Not a full on British summer. No. She relishes waking, and enjoys her days. She rises refreshed and rejuvenated. She goes out of the house for a brief run in the morning sun. Nothing epic, just to get the juices running. She listens to the birdsong, breathes the fresh morning air, and enjoys the view.
Coming back, she eats a healthy breakfast, gets a shower and dresses. Her lunch is made, her bag is packed, she washes her few pots and puts them away before she heads out for the early bus with her beau. (who, incidentally, has been inspired by her wonderfulness to become his own shining example of health, vitality and grooming)
Shall I leave out the day, except to say that whatever she does, she’s amazing at it. Never misses a deadline or let’s anything slide. Trials and tribulations bounce off her, slip away like water on the proverbial duck. She has fun. Talks with friends. Is suitably engaged and challenged while not being overwrought.
At lunch she meets friends, or maybe buys something in the market for tea. Or maybe she sits and writes, or reads, or sews. She doesn’t stay at her desk, thinking that staring at different stuff on the screen for twenty minutes constitutes a break. Every other day, she swims. Ever increasing numbers of lengths.
She leaves early, because she arrives early. She’s done what he needs to do and has a neat plan for tomorrow. After the train ride, she walks up the hill.
The house she returns to is tidy and clean. No piles of paper, magazines, books or clothes. Everything in its place. But nothing that shouldn’t be there. She’s cleared out the crap long ago. She keeps a reasonable stock of things that can usefully be reused. She recycles and composts. She grows her own veg, and would have chickens if the landlord allowed it. She cooks dinner, which they eat at the table. The television, and the computer (in all its forms) is turned on occasionally, for an hour or so at a time. There is as much quiet as there is noise. After dinner, when the dishes are done and put away, surfaces wiped, floor hoovered, cats fed and sleeping on the sofa, they talk. They read, she paints or sews or writes or draws. They walk for at least half an hour, sometimes they go to the gym. A few times a month, they go to pub quizzes here and there. She might have a drink or two, but not more. They go to the cinema, and theatre, and to see bands and comedians, with the money they don’t spend on drink. Her debt, if she has any, is rapidly decreasing.
The future looks bright. She sleeps well at night.