You know those people on Facebook who shout from their status updates how perfect everything is and how happy they are and how each new day is more perfect than the last? Well. I see through those people. I see through you, Facebook Nothing But Happiness Proclaimers! I know you have bad days and problems and perhaps an overdue phone bill and a secret box of Little Debbies hidden behind the quinoa on the top shelf of the pantry. I know your life is no more perfect than mine.
And mine is not perfect.
Being that I’ve created an atmosphere here of honesty, I’ve avoided writing with any regularity because my MOM reads this blog for crying out loud. My mom and my high school drama director and old friends from college and now all kinds of people who take my Zumba classes and all of a sudden I became hesitant to write my life because I don’t always feel like cracking jokes and because more and more I have to make eye contact with people who come here to read this stuff. You know? Somewhere along the way I misplaced the fearlessness or brazenness or whatever it was that allowed me to write this snark, and really I just don’t feel that funny anymore.
Then yesterday I was at a Zumbathon and somehow I mentioned something about a bad day and my tiny little anxiety problem and somebody said to me “Really? I just can’t imagine you being down. You’re always so energetic and happy!” and I thought to myself whatEVER. You obviously don’t read my BLOG. I’m a fricken MESS.
Except that I haven’t been writing much. Not real stuff. Not lately. It’s not pretty and it’s not funny and it’s not optimistic. So maybe I have turned into one of those Facebook people. Putting on a front.
I think it’s time for MrsFatass to get her balls back. So, if you are related to me or to Trophy Husband or are otherwise squeamish about reading the intimate details of this three ring circus of a life I’m leading then now would be a good time to save yourself and click away. Because shit is about to get REAL up in here.
I’m struggling. I’ve recently become a wife and mom who now also works outside of the home. Like, aside from the umpteen Zumba classes I teach. I have a real, grownup job. And I can’t effing keep up. I mean, women have been doing this since the dawn of time and I’m not looking for sympathy but I am not kidding when I say that I am not good at this. I’m tired and impatient and never know when Thing One has an early release day or needs Book Fair money and Thing Two wears the same ill-matched outfit several days a week because it’s what she chooses when she dresses herself and fuck if I have time in the mornings to argue with her about what pink shirt goes with what pink skirt and what pants that don’t wiggle (don’t know what that means? I didn’t either. Took me weeks to figure out she meant leggings). My house is filthy because the only chore I can manage to keep up with is laundry, and that’s because half of my job means sweating profusely in my clothing so I can only wear it once and the other half involves the fact that I basically wear a uniform to work. My beautiful, long awaited garden box is still without a single plant in it and I look at it lovingly every single day, wishing I had my hands in the dirt but instead I’m actually so tired at night that sometimes I don’t shower after class, I just fall into bed sweaty and hot and also sometimes it’s my way of keeping people from wanting to touch me or hug me or hold on to me because I can’t possibly do another thing for another person. My kitchen table is piled high with unopened mail and a load of socks I need to sort and toys that I’m trying to keep away from Woodson which isn’t really a big deal except that it’s become symbolic of all of the family meals we are no longer eating together because I’m always on the run. Trophy Husband is trying hard to do more than his share so that our schedules will work, but the truth is he and I are hanging on by a thread and he spent an hour locked in the bathroom today on the phone interviewing a potential marriage counselor, because we are no longer equipped to manage ourselves on our own. I’m a shitty friend who doesn’t return emails or requests to talk or Skype because I can’t talk about any of this without a keyboard, and I’m a shittier daughter because my dad is sick and my mom is exhausted but I just can’t figure out how to talk to them every day because my mom will see right through me and I don’t want her to worry about me and I don’t want to cry anymore and I love them so much. And I need to go to the dentist because I have a very sensitive tooth and it’s kind of freaking me out.
Too much? I told you shit was gonna get real.
Okay. So where do we go from here? Well, I still haven’t told you all about Disney or finally getting to shoot a gun or whatever happened in all of that #ashamed brouhaha. And aside from all the Zumba I have found another way to feel really good about myself and it involves pushing the envelope with the dress code at work and when I tell you about that it will explain the Tweet I sent out earlier about me making somebody crave honey baked ham. As hard as things are right now, I really do have some things going on that make me happy and calm and comfortable in my own skin and excited about looking into my future.
We’ve got a lot to catch up on, blogosphere.