This past weekend in Maine on Bremer Island was exactly what it should have been: swimming in too cold water, getting to know Swimming Jon's Emily, rowing with Kol, hammocking with Paul, tanning for the first time since sophomore year, drinking too much Warre's Warrior. When I walked into Ethan's house in Georgetown, which is astonishingly unchanged, I was overwhelmed with memories. Being with the Bairds and all the attendant people like Paul and Kol, makes me feel young and taken care of and spoiled and petted. There's nowhere else I feel like that except maybe my grandmother's house.

Too many relationships to balance and nurture. I'm not good at it, I know and yet I enjoy people so much. Call me lazy, or selfish, or unbearable, but it's true.

I just don't enjoy smoking pot, which is a shame. I wish I did. It looks fun.

I'm drowning in my own life and I don't know where to start to recover my equilibrium. I'm not unhappy so much as overwhelmed. Not working for Doug anymore, which I would have thought would free up my time, has merely posed more questions than it has answered and left me with a vague sense of unease. The ongoing theme has been the Aesop's Fable about the man, his son and their donkey, where they try to please everyone and end in pleasing no one.

I need to stop traveling.

I bought my first suit a few days ago and three pairs of pointy-toed shoes. Neither would have happened without the voices of Stacey and Clinton in my head, explaining that pointy shoes don't make your feet look bigger; they lengthen the line of your leg and that skinny girls are better off in two-button jackets than three. This sounds like hooey to me, too, but it's true.

I'm off to arrange my life. Wish me luck.