A little disclaimer before I start writing this post: I know I’ve got it good.
I’m in a loving marriage, I’ve got a great kid, I’m healthy,
and though I could use more money (who couldn’t?) we’re okay financially. I
know these things, and I try to be continually conscious of and grateful for
them.
But then there are days like today.
Days when my house is in desperate need of cleaning, yet I
rationalize putting it off for one more day; where the minutia of the daily
grind becomes physically painful; when my husband’s jokes are really insults
masked in jest; when I spend all my energy keeping my patience with my daughter
as she yells at me from her room, incensed because I committed some heinous act
against her like insisted she go to bed on time.
On days like today I sit here and think, “This is my life?”
This is my life.
And I keep it together until the house is quiet, and
everyone else is asleep except for me. Then I expose my dirty little secret… I
break out my imagination. I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to
kiss my husband in the morning, drop my daughter off at school and drive until
I ended up somewhere new, in another version of my own life.
A life where I’ve had the courage and persistence to
accomplish dreams that were seeded long before I could’ve imagined how raw
adulthood can be; a life where I’m a tougher version of myself instead of the real
me – inconsistent and idle.
I swing like a pendulum – one minute feeling resolute that I
deserve a life that’s more than just one laundry basket after the next, then swinging furiously to guilty depths for feeling unappreciative and
unsatisfied with how good I actually have it.
Too often I refuse to swing at all, paralyzed by laziness
and fear.
I swing between two different characters from Sex and the
City (all my references seem to come back to Sex and the City): I wish I were more like Samantha – brash and
entirely sure of herself, unwilling to put anything above her own instinct and
survival, but in reality I’m much more like Charlotte – borderline naïve and
fragile, yet unwilling to let go of her idealism even though it’s been proven
false time and time again.
This is my life.
It’s complicated.
