When will the Eveready Bunny's battery wear out?

I was chatting with a dominant friend yesterday and he offered his opinion that 'bimbo' needed longer claws.

 'Did he not like the length of her claws?'

'They need to be longer to keep the girl away', he said.

I didn't, and I don't, argue with the sentiment, but it did make me smile when I noticed later that he'd spent a couple of minutes reading this blog at the same time as we'd be chatting. I mean, honestly, bimbo hasn't been on these pages for several entries now. Personally, I hate that. He does too and so do you, probably.

It's not about being happy, or unhappy. It's a transition thing. For a few years now, I've been undertaking a tertiary qualification that has absorbed my mental energies. Then, I finished it. Hooray!

I got a message from a friend who'd already finished the same degree.

'Look after yourself. I fell into complete exhaustion after I finished and got a serious flu condition...didn't surface for months.'

Oh no, not me! I instinctively approached the 'dilemma' of the completion in a different way. Sure, I was tired, but I was going to beat the transition feeling, which is a rather unsettling feeling I have to tell you, by knocking myself out. I threw myself into planning a trip, reading copious extraneous material, long novels that I didn't enjoy, listening to endless podcasts. I was cramming my head with every idea available to me. Think. Think. Don't stop thinking!

Why?

Good question. My best efforts to psychoanalyze myself suggest that I had lost some element of my identity. I could no longer say I was doing an MA. I'd finished. Along came the inevitable questions. 'When is the book coming out?' 'When are we going to see that film you've been writing?' Oh goodness. I had to justify my existence with new material. I dare not rest (I haven't slept much in the past in two weeks) because there was so much to do! I was already so far behind.

Behind, you say? By whose standards? I don't know. All I knew was that I was well behind the eight ball by somebody's standards and I dare not rest until things were done, stories were written, trips were planned, people were visited, and the house looked immaculate.

Hurry. Hurry.

The reality of being me is that I am not suited to endless frenetic activity, nor to getting away from my bimbo roots. I function so much better when my head has had its brains sucked out; when my purpose in life is reduced to something so much smaller than all that. At the very least, I need plenty of 'bimbo' time in my life.

Thus, the call for longer claws. Keep the girl away, you see. Bring back bimbo.

Somewhere, sometime, someone must have told the girl that she needed to achieve real world things. So, she does achieve real world things. But, rather than luxuriate in that achievement for more than two minutes she feels an immediate internal pressure to achieve something more. On and on she goes, like an Eveready Bunny who has been left on and must run about non-stop until the battery runs out.

There comes a moment when she feels...exhausted, and just not herself.

'What's wrong?' she wonders.

Ah yes, it finally dawns on her, 'bimbo is missing in action', and that's always such a confusing, odd sort of situation to be in; unnatural.

That's when she accepts the situation for what she is. That's when she accepts her lack of self.

Finally, she can relax. Such a relief for bimbo to be back.