A New Appreciation

I have no children for which to wash clothes, bathe, pack lunches or teach proper manners. I have taken on the temporary task of seeing to almost all things domestic whilst among the job-free population. I don’t cook much. I can, I just don’t. Which isn’t to say that I won’t… I just haven’t taken to it yet. The jury is currently out on how long it will take for THAT portion of the domestic goddess job description to kick in. Though, to my credit… this “domestic thing” is only into the third day.

Anyway, I’m getting off track.

My point is, relatively-speaking, my life is pretty easy. Though my back right now would disagree. Who knew that running up and down stairs all day, washing, drying and folding six loads of laundry, making up beds, moving boxes, running the vaccum and organizing closets and drawers could be so exhausting and physically demanding? And yes, I RAN. I figured if I’m going to be exerting myself like this I may as well get that heart rate up so I ran the stairs — every time. 

After spending years… literally YEARS seated in a comfy chair behind a desk for eight hours a day, slurping coffee with my feet resting comfortably on an ergonomically-correct foot stool… my thirty-something body is protesting this type of labor. And I’ll say it again: I AM NOT CHASING AFTER CHILDREN! So how do stay-at-home mothers do it all day, every day? Ladies, I have a whole new appreciation for you and your careers, what with the running of the households and the raising of the kidlets and all.

While I DO find it mentally exhilarating to be out from behind that desk for the time being… Physically, I had no idea what I was in for. As I compose this, my arms, legs, neck and back are aching and my stomach is growling because I refuse to change my eating habits and nibble all day just because I can.

But the pain I am feeling… it is a good kind of pain. It is the BEST kind of pain. It is the “I am doing something different” kind of pain. Who needs a special diet plan to knock the extra, unwelcomed 10 pounds off my ass anyway? I am hoping that several more trips up and down the stairs will help to send them packing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with two Aleve and a heating pad. And cheers to all of you domestic goddesses out there doing these sorts of things… and soooo much more.


The Life I Was Meant to Lead?

Every morning after hitting the snooze button for probably the sixth time, I crawl out of bed and curse the morning. Staring in the mirror at the matching set of luggage beneath my eyes and the pillow marks etched deeply into my face, it becomes increasingly clear to me… This is not the life I was meant to lead.

I believe with every fiber of my being that I was meant to be rich and pampered. This is not a new concept for me. In the early years I merely thought that I would enjoy living that way.Who wouldn’t? However, things grew more serious as I became cognizant of a subtle but consistent migration toward behaviors and attitudes supporting this “I deserve to be pampered” way of life. And now… NOW it has become a full-on revelation that this is WHO I AM and I shouldn’t fight it any longer.

You see I am discovering as I get older, that there are very few things that I actually care to do for myself. Why can’t someone else do my laundry, iron my clothes, change my sheets, make my bed, empty my dishwasher, clean my house, wash and wax my car (no, make that detail my car), do my grocery shopping, cook for me, sort my mail, pay my bills and clean up after the cat when he hacks up a hairball on my freshly steam-cleaned-by-somebody-else white rug?

And while we’re on the subject of doing things vs. NOT doing things… Why must I work? I mean at all? Why can’t money just appear in my bank account? Why can’t I spend my days sleeping until the Lord wakes me, reading and watching television all the while becoming a student of Suze, The Doctors, Oprah, Chelsey, Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha—learning how to lead my very best, fiscally-responsible, healthy, witty, well-balanced, fabulously-accessorized life? Why can’t I spend my days shoe shopping in the farthest-reaching corners of the globe? I mean seriously, I really FEEL it in my bones that this is the life that I was intended, no make that designed to live.

Which then begs the question: If this truly is WHO I am… yet there is still no magical trust fund with my name on it… What in the hell am I supposed to do about it? As long as I continue to do my own laundry, ironing, dishes, etc. I will feel like I am living a lie.

I suppose I shouldn’t completely lose hope. They say that knowing is half the battle. And if that’s true… then I guess I’m at least halfway there.