Today has been a long and weird day. I awoke early, around 5:00 am, knowing I was scheduled at my Starbucks gig at 7:30. I lay in bed and tried to eke out another hour or so of sleep, to no avail. So I got up, took a shower, noting that two of my shampoo bottles had disappeared overnight. Then I got dressed and went and gave six hours to the coffee gods.
Arriving back at home, I am greeted by the vision of St Timothy, reclined on the couch, and the television blaring (volume level 32, when the kids and I watch it at 18) with endless football games. Periodically he takes out his computer, tries to get a signal to look at something, and then turns it off again, the television still shrieking. He moves from the couch to the loveseat, and back again. He steps out on the balcony every 15 to 20 minutes to smoke – “taking a couple of puffs,” he retorts when I pointed out that he smokes every 10-20 minutes. And then he returns to the couches and the idiot box. This is the sum of his existence, beyond arguing with 90% of all statements I make and screaming at the kids.
Tara goes from room to room, person to person, including the dog and her little voice is never silenced for longer than three seconds, except when she is asleep. Since Thursday night she has been sick. A visit to the pediatrician on Friday afternoon confirmed that she has double ear infections and a fever of 103. So we’ve been chasing her with Amoxicillin twice a day – well, I’ve been chasing her – today there was not time between football games, visits to the toilet/kitchen/smoke balcony for St Timothy to dose her. Not that I am shocked. At this writing she is wrapped around my left arm, making it difficult to type, as she giggles and tells me she “is [my] love.” This is the only positive feedback I will receive, and I am all for it.
Chloe took the money and ran. Literally. I gave her a $50 Visa card for her birthday, and she went to shopping with the parents of a friend. Apparently the fact I work multiple jobs is a real inconvenience to her, as I am not available to drive her to all the places she demands. Other parents are all more available and just all-round better human beings than me. Yet my shampoo is beguiling, as its allure is more than she can resist. When I question where it has gone, she pulls both bottles out of a bag in her room. My things are public property, but I don’t deserve the courtesy of a kind word. Teenagers.
The dog. Oh, the dog. He greeted me at the door, sniffing in an overall invasive way. Then he climbed onto the couch, into my lap. Which is lovely, except he has fleas. Despite telling me to buy flea powder yesterday morning, St Timothy has not found the time to dust some powder on the dog. Guess the dog wasn’t close enough to him during a commercial. He did find time to yell at Chloe to wash the dishes however.
So, having made it home and to my bedroom, I went to bed. Since ear-blasting football is not my cup of tea, I went to read in bed. I cannot watch television or listen to the radio in my room, as cords and converter boxes have been taken for others’ use. I drift off to sleep, and am awakened every 10 to 20 minutes by one of the kids coming in to ask me a question, or Tara’s overexuberant sharing. Finally after a couple of hours, St Timothy comes in to ask to use my debit card, as he wants to get fast food for Tara. Preparing any of the $200 worth of groceries I bought yesterday is too tedious. He goes to McDonald’s, venturing away from the safety of the screaming idiot box for a whole 20 minutes, and even returns with a sweet tea for me.
After he returns, I microwave a plate of generic pizza rolls for my one meal of the day. Tara meets me in the kitchen, demanding to know why I am eating her and her sister’s food. I explain I am only having a few. And then I retreat to the bedroom to eat the soggy crap in relative peace.
Today I have been reading Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs on the Kindle between interruptions. I can’t say I agree with all or even most of his assertions, but I do applaud his writing and his right to make them. It’s interesting to read the ramblings of someone who grew up somewhat in my cultural era (Klosterman is roughly six months older than my younger sister). It’s also helped me demystify a thinking male’s take on such ephemera as “The Man Show,” a cancelled cable piece of shit show that St Timothy has made rare reference to as a cultural touchstone of his. (Figures.) Bottom line, Klosterman writes about some of the same crap I have pondered in my spare time, when I waste my time thinking about ultimately meaningless stuff. This is not to make light of his courageous treatment of cinema questioning the nature of reality. The subtitle of this book is something about “low culture,” but the end result is that reality can be about as low as you can get. In several sections he derides “snarkiness,” yet I’ve often felt, at least in my own life, that snarkiness is next to godliness. Small g, at that.
So today, with the reading, working, and trying to live in domestic harmony, I have come to one conclusion. There has to be more than this.
I am older than my parents were when they owned a home, provided a Catholic school education and took a vacation, and had a “real” life. Yet I can do none of these things. I work roughly the same amount of hours as both of them combined. Yet I hate all of it. There is no calling here. There is no love or passion for what I do. It’s like a prison sentence I am trying to get through until I reach the blessed furlough of death. I was told that if I got an education and worked hard, good things would happen for me. Whoever told me that LIED.
There has to be time to enjoy my children. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do? There has to be time to enjoy something other than reading someone else’s writing. I wonder how old I will have to be before I find it.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
getting older... redux
Yesterday I became the mother of a fifteen year old. Yes, I did see this coming. And I have been ruminating on the idea for a while now. In the US, where I live, this means I am one year away from dealing with a child who drives. This is not what I want to even consider, especially considering that this same child still sucks her thumb, forgets to walk the dog, and leaves a trail of crumbs everywhere she goes.
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. Ever since she uttered that first evil cry in the delivery room, I knew this little one was someone to be reckoned with. But now every sentence is a demand, and I am the one at fault. I am the failure. The one who has failed to provide her with one thing she has ever wanted, and the one who has forced her to live a deprived life of boredom, tedium and evil.
So today I sit at the dining table that is as worn and beaten as I am. I type frenetically on my MacBook. I have the same dreams I had when she was born: to be a writer, to live independently of others, and to have time and freedom to explore my craft. Unfortunately, I have not been able to realize any of these dreams for the past fifteen years. Another child has come. And still the dreams remain.
I look around myself. I am still preparing meals for various people when they are hungry and drop into my hovel. I am still listening to my ex-husband snore on the couch – the present husband, St Timothy of the Incessant Humming, has run to the store to pick up cream cheese, water and caffeine-free soft drinks for the restless natives. Four girls (aged 15 to 5) currently are perching in my home, their cackles can be heard through the closed bedroom door. And I still sit at the dining table, typing away, and wishing my life away, just to be someone else.
Someone who words come easy to. Someone who possesses style and grace, both on the page and the pavement. Someone whose mind does not flit from regret to regression. Someone who does not look back, and is not afraid to look forward.
I may never be a writer. I may fall off the planet tomorrow, either hit by a bus or taken out by my high blood pressure. I may even be crushed by the towers of unread books by my bed. Sweet irony, indeed.
However, I may also lose my mind and have to try to sneak a laptop into the asylum of my choice so I can lull the lunatics with the pitter patter of little keys.
At any rate, we are another year older. Not wiser. And no closer to the goal. But we are still here.
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. Ever since she uttered that first evil cry in the delivery room, I knew this little one was someone to be reckoned with. But now every sentence is a demand, and I am the one at fault. I am the failure. The one who has failed to provide her with one thing she has ever wanted, and the one who has forced her to live a deprived life of boredom, tedium and evil.
So today I sit at the dining table that is as worn and beaten as I am. I type frenetically on my MacBook. I have the same dreams I had when she was born: to be a writer, to live independently of others, and to have time and freedom to explore my craft. Unfortunately, I have not been able to realize any of these dreams for the past fifteen years. Another child has come. And still the dreams remain.
I look around myself. I am still preparing meals for various people when they are hungry and drop into my hovel. I am still listening to my ex-husband snore on the couch – the present husband, St Timothy of the Incessant Humming, has run to the store to pick up cream cheese, water and caffeine-free soft drinks for the restless natives. Four girls (aged 15 to 5) currently are perching in my home, their cackles can be heard through the closed bedroom door. And I still sit at the dining table, typing away, and wishing my life away, just to be someone else.
Someone who words come easy to. Someone who possesses style and grace, both on the page and the pavement. Someone whose mind does not flit from regret to regression. Someone who does not look back, and is not afraid to look forward.
I may never be a writer. I may fall off the planet tomorrow, either hit by a bus or taken out by my high blood pressure. I may even be crushed by the towers of unread books by my bed. Sweet irony, indeed.
However, I may also lose my mind and have to try to sneak a laptop into the asylum of my choice so I can lull the lunatics with the pitter patter of little keys.
At any rate, we are another year older. Not wiser. And no closer to the goal. But we are still here.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Written on 10/19/10:
Lately I have been indulging that old whore, self-reflection. And of course, what she is showing me ain’t pretty. It’s a difficult birthday coming up in a couple of weeks, like 40 didn’t insult me enough last year. And yet… here I am, no closer to being whatever it is I am supposed to be, and still feeling overt self-loathing because of it.
At this point in my life, I thought I would have a home. Not a stuffed to the gills, too small, overpriced exercise in close communal living. Life in this particular petri dish is really bringing me down, and is actually a step backward from where I was just a year ago. At any rate, I knew what I was facing when I lost my house, and most of the time I just try not to think about it. However, there are just so many ways to distract oneself from the ugly truth. And the even uglier stacks of boxes and laundry that just don’t fit but are necessary to present a semi-capable façade to the world.
I also thought I would have found something more lucrative to do. I think I would be okay with the whole poverty thing if I didn’t have to work several jobs at once to achieve it. For example, being broke but having some kind of time to bathe, read, take naps, clean my house, or look at my kids might not be as evil. Or at least, I don’t remember it as being as evil as this.
What I am realizing is that this life of mine is a lesson in boundaries. I have accepted the unacceptable for so long, it is going to be a long hard climb up the hill to reach that little burgh called Decency. I look forward to at least having a cup of tea there before my mental illness shuttles me off to parts unknown. The topography of this map remains to be seen for the most part, and I continue to explore its shapes with cracked and numb hands.
So what do I have? Resolve? Maybe, but it is quickly disapating from over-use. Intelligence? Only out of a book, obviously, because I keep doing dumb shit. Patience? Not on your life. Self-knowledge? Hmmmm, someone said the unexamined life is not worth living. I say it is a bitch.
So anyway, here’s what I am doing. I am going to change my work schedule at the “main job,” continue to try to freelance and make it until the end of the year. I, with actual regret, gave a notice at my Starbucks job (with regret because other than the plantar’s fasciitis, which makes it unbearable to stand on my feet for longer than an hour and the great pain and difficulty walking, I actually like that job). And with something akin to hope, I actually signed up again for NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year my MacBook crashed in the middle of the first or second week, so I lost my fledgingly effort at that. I may try to recreate that story, as it is still floating around in my psyche somewhere, I think. I dunno. But it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I will never be a writer if I don’t actually get started. My health sucks, to be blunt, and I’m already creeping into my forties with shame. So if not now, when?
So thanks for reading, if you are. And if you are, please drop a comment or follow my blog. I promise that it will get more interesting as I continue to get my priorities in order.
At this point in my life, I thought I would have a home. Not a stuffed to the gills, too small, overpriced exercise in close communal living. Life in this particular petri dish is really bringing me down, and is actually a step backward from where I was just a year ago. At any rate, I knew what I was facing when I lost my house, and most of the time I just try not to think about it. However, there are just so many ways to distract oneself from the ugly truth. And the even uglier stacks of boxes and laundry that just don’t fit but are necessary to present a semi-capable façade to the world.
I also thought I would have found something more lucrative to do. I think I would be okay with the whole poverty thing if I didn’t have to work several jobs at once to achieve it. For example, being broke but having some kind of time to bathe, read, take naps, clean my house, or look at my kids might not be as evil. Or at least, I don’t remember it as being as evil as this.
What I am realizing is that this life of mine is a lesson in boundaries. I have accepted the unacceptable for so long, it is going to be a long hard climb up the hill to reach that little burgh called Decency. I look forward to at least having a cup of tea there before my mental illness shuttles me off to parts unknown. The topography of this map remains to be seen for the most part, and I continue to explore its shapes with cracked and numb hands.
So what do I have? Resolve? Maybe, but it is quickly disapating from over-use. Intelligence? Only out of a book, obviously, because I keep doing dumb shit. Patience? Not on your life. Self-knowledge? Hmmmm, someone said the unexamined life is not worth living. I say it is a bitch.
So anyway, here’s what I am doing. I am going to change my work schedule at the “main job,” continue to try to freelance and make it until the end of the year. I, with actual regret, gave a notice at my Starbucks job (with regret because other than the plantar’s fasciitis, which makes it unbearable to stand on my feet for longer than an hour and the great pain and difficulty walking, I actually like that job). And with something akin to hope, I actually signed up again for NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year my MacBook crashed in the middle of the first or second week, so I lost my fledgingly effort at that. I may try to recreate that story, as it is still floating around in my psyche somewhere, I think. I dunno. But it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I will never be a writer if I don’t actually get started. My health sucks, to be blunt, and I’m already creeping into my forties with shame. So if not now, when?
So thanks for reading, if you are. And if you are, please drop a comment or follow my blog. I promise that it will get more interesting as I continue to get my priorities in order.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Morning Becomes Electric...
A couple of days ago while nursing the latest of a long line of toothaches, I decided that I will only be able to subsist on a liquid diet of pureed fruits, all organic, as is befitting my inner svelte goddess.
Having embarked on such a journey, at least in my mind, I decided last night to get out my expensive blender. This blender deserves special mention, as I bought it to match all my other appliances when I lived in a house and not in a hovel, and had dreams of becoming a domestic diva. That one crashed. At any rate, I get out the blender, a 20 pound Black-and-Decker behemoth with shiny chrome accruements, and proceeded to make smoothies as a dessert treat for my family and my best friend who is always game for my impromptu dinner parties. Last night’s theme was white trash cooking, complete with pigs in a blanket, and generic out-of-the-box macaroni and cheese, with a side of “French” green beans (shredded fresh out of the can, no doubt). At any rate, the dessert smoothies were a hit, and the process went off well… almost.
Imagine my surprise when my fancy, expensive blender emitted more noise than a dozen wheat threshers at harvest time. The smell of the pureed fruit that was enjoyed by my diners was lost on me; I was still suspiciously sniffing the hint of acrid burning that I swear still haunts my nostrils. And finally, having lugged the heavy glass container to the sink for a soak, I was disillusioned. Once again.
So my dreams are dashed of having an early morning smoothie before I go off to work my eighteen-hour days. My neighbor, who falls all over herself to make witty conversation with St Timothy of Bad Television, complains if my dog utters a single bark. I am sure she will go into apoplexy if I run my Fruit Mashing Burning Machine yet another time. Living with two loud children, an exuberant dog, and a drunk, I have to ration my noisemaking opportunities.
Guess I will keep using the hotpot to make strong, overly sweet Irish breakfast tea every morning to get that get-up-and-go.
And it will get up and go to my flab. Inner Skinny Chick, Shut Up.
Having embarked on such a journey, at least in my mind, I decided last night to get out my expensive blender. This blender deserves special mention, as I bought it to match all my other appliances when I lived in a house and not in a hovel, and had dreams of becoming a domestic diva. That one crashed. At any rate, I get out the blender, a 20 pound Black-and-Decker behemoth with shiny chrome accruements, and proceeded to make smoothies as a dessert treat for my family and my best friend who is always game for my impromptu dinner parties. Last night’s theme was white trash cooking, complete with pigs in a blanket, and generic out-of-the-box macaroni and cheese, with a side of “French” green beans (shredded fresh out of the can, no doubt). At any rate, the dessert smoothies were a hit, and the process went off well… almost.
Imagine my surprise when my fancy, expensive blender emitted more noise than a dozen wheat threshers at harvest time. The smell of the pureed fruit that was enjoyed by my diners was lost on me; I was still suspiciously sniffing the hint of acrid burning that I swear still haunts my nostrils. And finally, having lugged the heavy glass container to the sink for a soak, I was disillusioned. Once again.
So my dreams are dashed of having an early morning smoothie before I go off to work my eighteen-hour days. My neighbor, who falls all over herself to make witty conversation with St Timothy of Bad Television, complains if my dog utters a single bark. I am sure she will go into apoplexy if I run my Fruit Mashing Burning Machine yet another time. Living with two loud children, an exuberant dog, and a drunk, I have to ration my noisemaking opportunities.
Guess I will keep using the hotpot to make strong, overly sweet Irish breakfast tea every morning to get that get-up-and-go.
And it will get up and go to my flab. Inner Skinny Chick, Shut Up.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
What a difference a Dexter makes...
As I am driving down the road actually having a real conversation with St Timothy of the Boondocks, it hits me.
“We were driving through the streets back in Rockford, and we were covered in mud, from wheels to the whites of our eyes. Everyone honked or beeped at us, howling, because we had been out in the Jeep, getting into whatever we could get into.”
No, this is not an exact quote. But it made me think. I remember days of bliss and action, doing dumb stuff with my friends - that was priority at that time in my life. And the world honked and waved back, because joy was contagious, or everyone was young once, or some such mutually fuzzy shit. Now my priorities are getting through the day, getting to all my jobs and doing the minimally acceptable amount – because I am too exhausted to do any more that that – and then going home to crash.
Yesterday, I spent the majority of time at home. I did venture forth to consume a bit of mediocre Chinese buffet, which I was unable to do with zeal because I had a hideous toothache. And we grabbed some stuff to make fruit smoothies, because the toothache had me thinking that I would starve and so need to consist on a liquid diet. My inner skinny person stretched and yawned and determined that when all my hideous teeth fall out I will be thin and will do yoga and where belly shirts and hip capris and will drink airy martinis and be elegant and sexy and only slightly curvaceous as I take younger lovers and drive a convertible SUV or perhaps a Mini Cooper. In reality, I went home to nap on the couch and finish watching Season One of Dexter on DVD. And read. And read. And napped. And read.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I am leaving work and a coworker remarks that I look much less frazzled today. Could a day make so much difference?
Anyway, I digress. Those days of bliss and action – where the action was always slightly bizarre but very entertaining – are long gone for me. Yet I cannot bear the alternative. Yesterday, just driving around with the Tiny Tyrant Tara and St Timothy, I came up with about three ideas for essays/articles…. at the very least, blog entries. It was almost as if my joie de vivre, dare I say my Muse? came back.
Scary stuff.
So two things are happening. I am giving less of a shit. And I am happier. And I might even write again.
“We were driving through the streets back in Rockford, and we were covered in mud, from wheels to the whites of our eyes. Everyone honked or beeped at us, howling, because we had been out in the Jeep, getting into whatever we could get into.”
No, this is not an exact quote. But it made me think. I remember days of bliss and action, doing dumb stuff with my friends - that was priority at that time in my life. And the world honked and waved back, because joy was contagious, or everyone was young once, or some such mutually fuzzy shit. Now my priorities are getting through the day, getting to all my jobs and doing the minimally acceptable amount – because I am too exhausted to do any more that that – and then going home to crash.
Yesterday, I spent the majority of time at home. I did venture forth to consume a bit of mediocre Chinese buffet, which I was unable to do with zeal because I had a hideous toothache. And we grabbed some stuff to make fruit smoothies, because the toothache had me thinking that I would starve and so need to consist on a liquid diet. My inner skinny person stretched and yawned and determined that when all my hideous teeth fall out I will be thin and will do yoga and where belly shirts and hip capris and will drink airy martinis and be elegant and sexy and only slightly curvaceous as I take younger lovers and drive a convertible SUV or perhaps a Mini Cooper. In reality, I went home to nap on the couch and finish watching Season One of Dexter on DVD. And read. And read. And napped. And read.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I am leaving work and a coworker remarks that I look much less frazzled today. Could a day make so much difference?
Anyway, I digress. Those days of bliss and action – where the action was always slightly bizarre but very entertaining – are long gone for me. Yet I cannot bear the alternative. Yesterday, just driving around with the Tiny Tyrant Tara and St Timothy, I came up with about three ideas for essays/articles…. at the very least, blog entries. It was almost as if my joie de vivre, dare I say my Muse? came back.
Scary stuff.
So two things are happening. I am giving less of a shit. And I am happier. And I might even write again.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Migraines are a pain in places other than the head...
This morning I was awoken by the work cell phone. Prior to 6:00 am.
Opening one eye, I was immediately blinded, nauseated and pissed off by a stabbing migraine. I rolled over, and wanted to stab my eyes, brain and connective tissue with a rusty barbecue fork. I resisted the urge, barely, and began my evil day.
See, yesterday I got slammed. St. Timothy of the Rusty Bottle Opener had called me at work to let me know the electricity has been shut off. Again. I'm sure it had put quite a kink in the luxurious life we live at Chez Dog Hair. It was too late in the day and I was in between leaving one job and going to the next, and so it remained off all last night. And today. Payday is in two weeks, so I am questioning our ability to rough it frontier-style until then. This unfairly imposed embargo against my getting my morning caffeine will probably chauffeur me the short distance to certifiably insane.
Some other work stuff also happened, and it was one of those days - wait, every day is one of those days! - where every phone call was a drama/catastrophe/tragedy just waiting with its breath held to sink its malodorous claws into me to save the day. Unfortunately, I left my superhero cape in my other life closet.
So dragging one well-heeled and bitter foot into today, I have the migraine. I would refer to it as The Visitor From Hell, but others would get confused and think I was talking about a menstrual event or worse, one of my relatives.
The good news is that I don't have migraines as often as I used to. The bad news is, when I do,they kick my ass.
So today I am at the office, my evil throbbing head-goblin in tow. I've got stacks of things to read, type, calls to make, and other silly things. And the head-goblin is cackling mightily. "What a dumbass," it chortles. "Like we are here to work!" it scoffs.
So the lesson for today, my dear readers, is not to take anything for granted. Pain-free days. Electricity. Snacks. None of it.
Even sanity. Oh wait, did I say sanity?
Opening one eye, I was immediately blinded, nauseated and pissed off by a stabbing migraine. I rolled over, and wanted to stab my eyes, brain and connective tissue with a rusty barbecue fork. I resisted the urge, barely, and began my evil day.
See, yesterday I got slammed. St. Timothy of the Rusty Bottle Opener had called me at work to let me know the electricity has been shut off. Again. I'm sure it had put quite a kink in the luxurious life we live at Chez Dog Hair. It was too late in the day and I was in between leaving one job and going to the next, and so it remained off all last night. And today. Payday is in two weeks, so I am questioning our ability to rough it frontier-style until then. This unfairly imposed embargo against my getting my morning caffeine will probably chauffeur me the short distance to certifiably insane.
Some other work stuff also happened, and it was one of those days - wait, every day is one of those days! - where every phone call was a drama/catastrophe/tragedy just waiting with its breath held to sink its malodorous claws into me to save the day. Unfortunately, I left my superhero cape in my other life closet.
So dragging one well-heeled and bitter foot into today, I have the migraine. I would refer to it as The Visitor From Hell, but others would get confused and think I was talking about a menstrual event or worse, one of my relatives.
The good news is that I don't have migraines as often as I used to. The bad news is, when I do,they kick my ass.
So today I am at the office, my evil throbbing head-goblin in tow. I've got stacks of things to read, type, calls to make, and other silly things. And the head-goblin is cackling mightily. "What a dumbass," it chortles. "Like we are here to work!" it scoffs.
So the lesson for today, my dear readers, is not to take anything for granted. Pain-free days. Electricity. Snacks. None of it.
Even sanity. Oh wait, did I say sanity?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Growing Older Disgracefully
A couple of weeks ago I scraped together the funds and decided to break in my Starbucks health insurance and went to see a local doctor for some minor complaints. Complaints like shooting pains in my feet after working only an hour, and the excruciating pain shooting through my hands, wrists, arms and sometimes shoulders after typing, writing or making lattes for more than a few minutes. I was sure he would tell me I had some exotic malady, and prescribe a miracle drug that would make me pain-free (and sexy). However, I was to be disappointed.
"You know, you are not young anymore."
Wow, what a diagnosis. Notyoungitis? Aged decrepititude? This is a disease I am not quite prepared to embrace, basically because the cure kind of sucks.
Hobble with me through time to last Friday. I, enamored with the heady pleasure that is health (and vision! swoon!) insurance, decided to treat my myopic peepers to a vision exam for new glasses. The optometrist performed the vision field exam twice before throwing in the towel. When I asked him what could be the culprit, he discovered lesions on my retina. The bright side, he says, is that I am not so old I need bifocals! Fabulous. My heart rejoices.
So my body is ancient, while my eyes are merely aged?
These events have caused me to do further consideration of my life. At this late age of creeping up on forty-one, I planned on having accomplished an entirely different set of goals. I did not plan on having my life's events randomly caused by others. I did not plan to be a professional reactor to people who have no idea how to react.
So it is with every bit of resolve I have not to quit all my jobs and run. Somewhere, anywhere.
Not to abandon responsibility and start living. My own life.
Not to chuck it and spend my remaining days being a drain on the system, fate, and others' nerves.
My task at this point is try to carve out a little serenity, calm, happiness even, when there's not much left to carve from.
Getting my life back might be so grand as to overwhelm me.
"You know, you are not young anymore."
Wow, what a diagnosis. Notyoungitis? Aged decrepititude? This is a disease I am not quite prepared to embrace, basically because the cure kind of sucks.
Hobble with me through time to last Friday. I, enamored with the heady pleasure that is health (and vision! swoon!) insurance, decided to treat my myopic peepers to a vision exam for new glasses. The optometrist performed the vision field exam twice before throwing in the towel. When I asked him what could be the culprit, he discovered lesions on my retina. The bright side, he says, is that I am not so old I need bifocals! Fabulous. My heart rejoices.
So my body is ancient, while my eyes are merely aged?
These events have caused me to do further consideration of my life. At this late age of creeping up on forty-one, I planned on having accomplished an entirely different set of goals. I did not plan on having my life's events randomly caused by others. I did not plan to be a professional reactor to people who have no idea how to react.
So it is with every bit of resolve I have not to quit all my jobs and run. Somewhere, anywhere.
Not to abandon responsibility and start living. My own life.
Not to chuck it and spend my remaining days being a drain on the system, fate, and others' nerves.
My task at this point is try to carve out a little serenity, calm, happiness even, when there's not much left to carve from.
Getting my life back might be so grand as to overwhelm me.
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