The horoscope dropped a warning shot with the tea this morning: “Keep a low profile. Any attention is suspect.”
Honestly? I didn’t need the stars to tell me that twice. After the weekend I just had, “low profile” sounds less like a restriction and more like a recovery plan.
My head is still spinning a bit from the gear shifts. Friday was just me against the water, and the water won. I stood out there, rod in hand, waiting for a bite that never came. Getting skunked is nature’s way of reminding you that you aren’t in control, which is a humbling way to start a weekend. Just silence and empty hooks.
Then came the pivot to “Domestic Dad” on Saturday. I spent the day scrubbing the house until it was decent, prepping for the evening shift. There is a specific kind of satisfaction in throwing T-bones on the heat—listening to that sear—and feeding the kid and his girlfriend. Watching teenagers actually slow down and eat a good meal you made? That’s a win. Sunday was just the boy and me, keeping it simple, recharging the batteries.
But now it’s Monday. The world usually wants to kick down the door and demand answers, but the universe is explicitly telling me to lock it. “Don’t trust the motives of anyone who asks too many questions.”
So, that’s the strategy. If the phone rings, I’m suspicious. If an email looks too eager, it’s getting archived. The horoscope says to lose myself in the pursuit of my own interests, so that is exactly what’s happening. Maybe I’ll tinker with the server, maybe I’ll write, maybe I’ll just stare at a wall and think about where those fish were hiding on Friday.
Sorry, world. The shop is closed. I’m busy minding my own business.
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