Blind inFlight

I am drinking chicory coffee and lying under my weighted blanket on my giant beanbag. My dog is snoring beside me. This is the only piece of “furniture” she’s allowed on, which brings up the quandry of whether the beanbag is actually furniture at all.
When I was nearly 30, I came across an article, (or, I think, possibly someone emailed it to me), that snarkily dictated rules about being an adult. If you were a respectable 30-year-old, it said, you had ditched the Ikea furniture. You had, like, probably a couch that someone had to deliver. You had a bedframe, not just a mattress on the floor. You had retirement savings. Otherwise, no adulthood for you, just loser millenial purgatory.
I don’t understand why people write articles like this. A need to feel secure by putting other people’s choices or circumstances down fools no one. I should know, I am the king of doing this. My only hope is that I realize I do it, and can work on it, no matter how fruitless it sometimes feels.
Anyway, this beanbag has brought me so much happiness over the last several years I’ve had it, I don’t really care if it qualifies as furniture at all. I also have a swing that is supposed to be outside patio furniture, but which sits by my desk in my living room and which I swing on every day, because swinging makes me happy. Since everyone is super into Marie Kondo right now, I’ll go so far as to say that these things “spark joy” for me. All the joy, and honestly, there’s not a lot of joy in Seattle in January, so I’ll take it, damn you mean article writer.
What I really came here to say is… the last several nights I’ve been sitting in my beanbag, with my dog and my teacup and sometimes a square of chocolate, and I’ve been writing. Because I want to, or need to, and not because I am forcing myself to, which is usually how I’ve been feeling about writing since I graduated. I feel like I should say this quietly, at the stealthy end of this blog post, after the Marie Kondo and the cataloguing of my furniture. What if I shout it at the top of the page and I lose my zeal? Shhhh, don’t anyone tell my brain I’m writing and actually enjoying it.
It’s lonely work, certainly. Writing usually is. But if I’m going to be alone, at least I have my pup, and my not-furniture, and all the words in the universe for company.