You know what I think?
Yeah, I don’t know what I fucking think.
I’ve stayed away from the blogging scene recently because of that. I’ve got nothing, except a full schedule, and I always don’t make time for writing.
And some would look at that and say I am not a true writer. That were I truly dedicated to my craft, I would wake up wanting–no, NEEDING to write, and nothing would get in my way of doing it–not the dishes, not the mortgage, not the laundry…
And I haven’t been sewing much lately. My schedule, again is full, and I’ve found those moments to myself have been just that–and I’ve curled up with a book and a cuppa and haven’t ventured much into my studio.
And some would say I’m not really committed to my art. That if crafting were that important to me, I would be COMPELLED to do it. It would take up every moment I have, because that’s how they define inspiration.
I haven’t been eating well lately. I have a tendency to reach for what is easy, and what tastes good, and what fills that internal comfort meter of the fat/sugar ratio of delight. Because pastries were meant to be consumed. And “beer is proof that God loves us.” (Ben Franklin)
And some would say I am not serious about getting healthy and losing these extra pounds. That if I were serious, I would only eat this or that, and I would have will power, and I would exercise and nothing would get in my way.
My face to face time with friends has been limited lately. Because sometimes I find it exhausting. And I prefer a moment to myself with the new season of Downton Abbey and a warm beverage.
And some would say I am not a good friend. Because I don’t go out of my way to make the time to go on this lunch date and join that book club and share that recipe and drink that cocktail. If I really wanted girlfriends, I would make the effort.
My parenting has been sorta off track lately. SO much so that I have to make lists of the things I’m supposed to be doing because I forget that he has to brush his teeth, or that we should go to the park, or that there is homework in his backpack.
And some would say I’m not being a good parent. Because they define parenting by some sort of construct they developed themselves based on a ratio of their own parents’ actions in relation to the way THEY wanted to be raised, with a healthy dose of whatever it is they read on the interwebs. And that if I were really serious about being a good parent, I would read this and do that and feed him that and read him that.
I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions. I always figure if I need to make a change, I do. I don’t need a prescribed date to do it.
And, I suppose, some would say I’m lazy and missing an opportunity to better myself.
But, funny thing is, there’s a resolution I just realized I was so far keeping this year: oddly enough, I’m not listening to what THEY say anymore. As far as I’m concerned, THEY can go fuck themselves, because they obviously don’t know me. THEY seem to make a habit of bullying others because that person doesn’t fit within their social construct. THEY shout loud for all to hear that THEY are the ones with the answers, and woe to those who disagree. And they quote holy books, or scientific studies, or Facebook posts, and claim to have the answers. FOR ME. Having never sat on my saggy couch or eaten my banana bread. THEY are no better than the invisible army they rail against. Just loud and obnoxious and insulting bullies. And I’m tired of them having a voice. I really am.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some laundry to do, and I need to brainstorm a way to get my kid to WANT to line up at the morning bell, and I’ve got some knitting to finish, and I’m a little hungry since I haven’t eaten brekkies yet. You know–LIFE. The thing we end up doing when we stop listening to THEM.