I’m sick of the cold weather. I can’t wait for summer to get here.
I want to go to the lake, to the beach, to the park for a picnic. I want to pick flowers and go to Barton Springs and the splash parks again…
Fuck, it’s too hot to do anything.
Summer is never going to end.
I just want to unpack my sweat pants and eat soup all day. I want to cover my leg and arm skin and trade this salad for mashed potatoes.
Every year with the weather and the food.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting…for what I’m not sure. The perfect set of conditions where I’ll finally be happy I guess.
Julia Cameron encourages a practice in writing called Morning Pages. I do this. First thing in the morning, I sit down and either handwrite or type whatever comes to mind.
I call them my Whiny Pages. I rarely read back on them after I close the page because it is mostly just a stream of negativity and hurt feelings. It’s a safe place where I can vent, be a downer, and complain. It helps prevent me from unleashing that on people throughout my days. It helps put things in perspective. Because when you write down the feelings you have, you can see how ridiculous some of them are. You can also sort through the ones that are valid and need real attention.
I don’t love having this inner monologue written down, and I’d like to create some kind of burn sequence so that upon my passing, all of these pages will be destroyed. I don’t think anyone ever needs to have access to my unfiltered thoughts.
One of the biggest things I complain about in whiny pages is my routine. My normal. The boring parts of life, where I chafe from the life of a stay at home mom. The perceived loss of identity. The way people dismiss me. The sameness of each and every day. Pages and pages of insecurities.
Last week, I was sick with a sinus infection and bronchitis.
I didn’t do much of anything except try to breathe and sleep with a humidifier next to me. My daughter was bored. She watched a lot of television.
By day two of it, I was begging to be back to the normal I waste so much time complaining about.
The way I’d taken something as simple as breathing for granted became appalling to me.
My ingratitude–stark, ugly, and silently screaming from those pages.
I almost burned them all right then.
Then we got some bad news from a family member, and we went to visit them this past weekend.
The cancer is back. He started a new round of chemo Monday. The co-pay is almost unmanageable on a fixed income. The side effects predicted are debilitating. This treatment will last 16 weeks and then they’ll see.
He’s been fighting for ten years. This is another battle. They don’t know how it will go, but I know he and his wife would welcome my “normal” with a warm embrace–a visit from an old friend they probably don’t even recognize anymore.
I know I’ll lose and find this perspective over and over again for the rest of my life, and it borders on cliché to tell you to be thankful for whatever your normal might be today, but I’m hoping I can hold on a little longer to it this time.
I’m trying to finish this post, and my daughter is holding a pair of tweezers in my face and screaming, “Squeezers!”
That’s a normal morning, and for today at least, I have no complaints.