Is it wrong to admit that I lost interest in The Diary of Anne Frank? Not in the book's terror or poignancy, of course, nor in the details of daily life in hiding, nor in the sweetness of her character. But the "no one understands me!" refrain is wearing me down, and I'm sure this is because the "no one understands me!" refrain is ringing from my own rafters. Such is the burden of being the parent of an adolescent who is full of feelings.
So now I'm at loose ends. Shall I read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking? Shall I read a history of the crusades? Should I ignore my "recent finds at the Goodwill" shelf and go back to a nineteenth-century comrade? I'm not feeling at all decisive, partly because my week is already in such an uproar. Will I be going to a funeral in New Jersey? Will I be baking pies at the cafe? Will I be typing out my Frost Place notes? Will I be toting children to drivers' ed class? Will I be editing or writing or applying for grants, or will I be nauseous in an airplane? Will I ever remember how to use the word nauseous correctly?