There are things that I know to be true. For example: a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream is a single serving.
There are things that I know are not true but I choose to believe them anyway. Things like how I feel more attractive and slimmer when I wear stretch denim jeans, even though I know it’s a lie–a lie born of Lycra and denial.
Then there are the things that I refuse on any level to accept. Things like this;
Sorry, but no. No goddamn way. I don’t know who that old dude is; apparently a retired school bus driver with anger issues by the looks of it, but he is not Axl Rose. NOT AXL ROSE I SAY!
Similarly, there are things I know about myself which I stalwartly reject. Things I’ve swept into the basement closet of my soul intending them to remain unseen and unexamined, hopefully forever.
The thing with major life changes, however, is that in the jostling and confusion, some of those little tendencies break free of their confines and demand attention. See, I HAD been working under the assumption that it was only my busy, busy schedule keeping me from achieving… oh, hell, I don’t know… perfection? World domination maybe? Had I free time, I’ve said to myself, I would be a meditating-writing-home beautifying-perfect parenting whirlwind. I reject entirely the bald fact that what really happens is, given any relief in my schedule, all my bad habits finally have the glorious space to sink down and fester. I deny that what I always do is stay up far too late, watch horrible 1970s movies, indulge in online shopping and sleep until the kidlets drag me from the bed because:
- they are hungry and despite all having respectable IQs have forgotten how the toaster works, or
- water is leaking from a major appliance, or
- today is Thanksgiving.
I make myself far too many snacks while wandering the house, confused by the overwhelming array of possibilities as to how to spend my day. I debate taking a nap. I pick up a book and promptly lose an hour. Invariably I bake something. And despite the fact that I am living the reality right now, I staunchly deny that I am this unfocused girl, any more than that old coot in the picture is the formerly gorgeous front man of an iconic hair band.
Do you know what I’m doing right now?
I’m just hanging out in the back yard, wiggling my toes in the grass, avoiding any sort of, you know, active parenting and wondering if it’s too early for a glass of wine. (Answer: No.)
It is glorious.
Hubby and I were just talking last night about our shared lack of personal ambition. When it comes down to it, neither one of us cares one, teensy whit that we have acquired neither sizable fortune, professional prestige nor a place in the annals of history. When I’m busy, busy, busy I don’t take the time to question what it is I think I should be doing. I tend to horsewhip myself over the lack of some sort of action on at least one of those fronts, attempting to work up some sort of froth about it. I mean, we are supposed to be concerned about this stuff, right?
But now that the curtain is pulled aside, now that I have all the time in the world to do what I really want to do, it appears that what I want is… not much. That unfocused, dreamy girl is largely a contented one. Perhaps I should let her out more often. The less I push myself to do, the happier I seem to be. Do I need anything else? Other than that glass of wine, I mean.