Day 345: Having Your Back Against the Wall Isn't All Bad

As I was making my bed up for the first night in the new place I started thinking about the fact that I do not prefer a particular side. I haven’t done a scientific poll or anything, but I am under the impression that most people definitely keep to one side of the bed.  I actually prefer the middle, but have found that to be problematic for whoever is lucky enough to be in bed with me (read: the husband). I am able to choose one side consistently, but as soon as we move I frequently switch my preference. So tonight I am wondering why this is when others seem to be a firm lefty or righty sleeper. The answer I’m coming back with, is not a surprise, except in the fact that it never occurred to me before. I like to sleep close to the door because I hate feeling trapped.

I’m not claustrophobic, though I confess to not loving tight spaces when surrounded by others. My issue is really more about feeling compelled to always have an exit close at hand. In restaurants, I like to sit with my back to the wall so I can see the doors. On planes, I pay attention to where the exits are and I count the rows in front of and in back of me to the nearest exists. In conversations, I tend to take the lead lest I get stuck in a discussion that either makes me uncomfortable or that I know nothing about. And when it comes to sleeping, I choose whichever side is closest to the door.

I don’t know when this fear of losing control started, I certainly do not recall worrying about such things as a child or teen, but as an adult it is a constant part of my thought process. I hate to rely on others to drive and so I always offer to do this task, including with the husband. When we travel to cities not equipped with adequate public transportation I insist on renting a car. I prefer hotels to staying in people’s homes and I hate rooms in the middle of a long hallway.

My fear of living in the middle states or cities without decent airports, public transportation or along the coast gnaws away at me and plays into my ability to be happy in a particular place. I need exits because I am a runner and there is a comfort in knowing that I am never trapped. New York was perfect for me in this way. Trains and cabs run 24 hours a day, there are three major airports nearby and it is surrounded by water. I felt free in NY and for a while I slept wherever I landed (in more ways than one), but I slept well many nights and I was happy.

Maybe I’ll never get over this need to keep my back to the wall and my exits in front of me, but then we all do what we need to, don’t we? I think there’s been some growth. I got married (which does still terrify me at times), I allow the husband’s job to dictate where we will live . . . mostly, and the last couple of times we’ve stayed with his family without a rental I have only mildly freaked out. Maybe I will never win against this need of mine or then again, maybe winning is acknowledging and giving yourself what you need to be happy. If all it takes for me, is a door, then I’d say I’m not doing too badly.

Day 344: When You Label Me, I Take it as a Compliment

A friend who commented on yesterday’s blog, mentioned the persistence some people (myself included) have with the use of labeling to describe people. While there was a time in my life when I too believed labels to be limiting. Fortunately, I threw out my hippie skirts, starting shaving again and allowed myself the freedom to just not really like the Grateful Dead or Phish. These days I believe in labels if only because I don’t see a way around them. I agree, they can be harmful or limiting if used with malice or bias, but they can also just be a part of our culture that is as inescapable as a Spring shower.

Try to describe someone you know without using labels. Aren’t adjectives just a more generic label? Even someone like me, who routinely defies any logical category is an “iconoclast” or “contradictory.” While those labels are far less narrowly defined than say calling someone a prude or a snob, the same principle applies. I think all of us carry a multitude of labels. No one is solely one thing and that is where the negativity comes in. To describe a woman as “just a housewife” is to ignore that she is also a wife or mother, master multi-tasker, closet alcoholic, fabulous cook, painter, amateur mechanic, etc., you get the idea.

When we speak of labeling someone, we often assume this to be a bad thing. In my blog, it might have had a bit of that edge to it, but the real implication is that to assume any one of us is only one thing is to blind ourselves to our true nature. I am just as guilty as the next judgmental fool who might deem someone a jackhole or airhead, but it should be assumed that this label is only in reference to limited contact.

So why not embrace our labels? Should we not aspire to be as many things as we can be? I am a woman, wife, loudmouth, sports aficionado, sentimentalist, cynic, baker, cat lover, friend, iconoclast, liberal, writer, teacher, student, bitch, lover, volunteer, snob, humanist, singer, drinker, liar, truth-seeker, and yes, I am also a labeler. Without those labels, I might not be able to discover everything that I am and want to be. So go ahead, judge me, I take pride in being a person defined not by a single label, but by them all.

Day 343: Don't Let the Facts Fool You, I'm Not Housewife Material

I have been living a lie and it is slowly killing me. These last two years I have moved three times and been mostly unemployed. From all outside appearances, I am the thing I was never meant to be: I am a housewife. Gasp! Now before you all start jumping down my throat about being judgmental again, let me clarify that I am not insinuating that housewifery is bad, just that I am not suited for that role in the least.

First off, I’m bad at it. I hate to clean and rarely do it. Consequently, there is no five second rule in my house. If you drop it, it will likely be covered in cat hair so I don’t recommend putting it in your mouth, in fact, picking it up at all is somewhat optional. I like clutter and despite my recent determination to achieve that empty backpack, I am still living the life of a 18-piece mismatched set of luggage. I don’t have any children, which is usually a prerequisite for the housewives club and finally, I’m not really gossipy, garden-friendly, or fond of The View.

I like having someplace to go in the mornings. That wonderful feeling of accomplishment when you’ve put in a long day or finished a big project is something laundry just does not give me. I like having lunch at the office or drinks after work. I even miss my morning commute – though I will admit that the current commute of padding from bed to kitchen in PJ’s and slippers is pretty awesome. Still, I miss the purpose of work outside the home and the built-in excuse for why the house isn’t clean. (Too busy! Rough week at work! I consider the office my home!)

All this wouldn’t be so terrible if it weren’t for the fact that I have traced my current housewife status to the reason I am so cranky and depressed of late. It hit me with all the subtlety of Ann Coulter’s penis envy, I hate being a housewife and I’m taking it out on everyone I know. It may come as no surprise to you that I have a certain gift for being a bitch. What can I say, I go with what I know. Anyway, after practically eviscerating the husband via an ill-timed phone conversation Friday I started to trace back over what is happening in my life and I finally figured it out.

Shockingly, even after a year of self-immersion via this blog, copious amounts of wine, scotch and Jack, and more alone time than even I ever wanted I still didn’t really see it coming. Up until now, I contented myself with the belief that a job offer would come any day now. Well, that just isn’t really happening. Temp jobs and freelance gigs do not a career make and the reality is, like it or not, I’m a damn housewife. I even bake and take my treats into the husband’s office. I might as well don and apron and Tivo “Army Wives.”

Though I guess it’s not too late. I have identified and admitted the problem after all, so a cure should be just around the corner, right? Well, considering that a cure will require a full-time job offer, maybe not, but if I stay alert and understand why I am moody and acting out maybe I can overcome this affliction. My greatest fear is that I will wake up in five years to discover that I actually enjoy cleaning and that nothing pleases me more than knowing my darling husband sincerely enjoyed tonight’s dinner. Never mind, I don’t really think that’s a possibility, my excessive four-letter vocabulary doesn’t really shout Domestic Goddess, more like “fucking clean it up yourself!” You can’t change your nature and the housewife just isn’t in mine.

Day 342: Moving Away From the Self and the Selfish

On Thursday of this week I am moving to a new place. The move itself, as anyone could guess, is a hassle. Boxes, packing, cleaning, unpacking, disposing of boxes, cleaning and sheer exhaustion will be my world for the next week. What I find to be rewarding about moving, is the opportunity to reexamine one’s life.

We move fairly frequently, so there are never any big surprises, but with each move I begin to sort through and to dispose of items that are no longer critical to my lifestyle. It is actually quite amazing to discover how much we do not need, but that we keep anyway. As a life-long packrat this might be more of a problem for me, but there is a sense of emotional security as well and this experience is teaching me that it is not only things that feed my need for consumption, but places and particular connections to items.

My current apartment is symbolic of a transitional point in my life. I moved to Charlotte, without really knowing anyone and the husband was in Iraq, so it was very much just about me. I found this place, I planned my move, I did the work to make it happen and I lived here alone for a year. Sitting on my balcony, looking out over the road below, I would sip wine and let the feeling of disconnectedness wash over me. This place both found and isolated me for a time and it’s a little sad now to say goodbye. It does feel a bit like a security blanket to me. It is my place, a geographic reclaiming of my independent self.

Moving to our new apartment I am very much aware that it is once again about a shared life. This will be OUR Charlotte apartment and even though Jeff will live in Ft. Bragg during the week, it is just as much his place. We found it together, planned the move together and will make it a home together. I would be lying if I said that there is a part of me that lingering in the sense of independence this current space represents. Not that I do not miss him when he’s not here, but it was interesting to have the time and quite literally, the space, to rediscover myself.

This blog was born here as was my current view of self. I think I found myself here and while life remains a struggle in the ways that we all clamber about, looking for happiness and health, I do feel very positive about what is to come. Oddly enough, nothing is physically going to change except for our address, but there is a sense for both the husband and I, that while this place is mine, the new place is ours. So I am saying to goodbye to my sanctuary, a place that both saved and damned me from time to time. I feel a new pressure to be somehow cured once we moved. It is time to divert my pursuits from the obsessive journey of self-discovery and rededicate to being a part of a team. I am excited for what is to come, but I’ll also cherish that time that I had to find myself all over again.

Day 341: An Apology to Moms, From the Bigmouth Who Put You Down

I’ve been rereading a lot of my old blogs and one of the recurrent themes that stuck out for me was the issue of motherhood. This is especially timely, given that today is Mother’s Day. It should be no secret to anyone who has read the blogs from the last couple of weeks that I’ve been a bit down and in somewhat of a snit. I get the blues, that’s not a shock, but it’s more than that. It’s Mother’s Day and this happens to be my least favorite holiday of the year.

It’s not that I need a special day to remember – or rather, miss – my Mother, it’s that this day is so pervasive that one cannot escape it’s grasp. All week, everywhere I went there were signs on doors announcing the revised business hours for Mother’s Day. Cards and specials on flowers stared me down at the grocery or Target. TV episodes aired special Mother’s Day tributes. Facebook took the holiday to a new level of viral as everyone sent a shout out to their Moms. I just wanted a place without a Mother, tribute to Mothers or gift ideas for Mothers. Unfortunately, this was not possible and no matter how I tried to hide, I still had to plan and send a gift to my Mother-in-law and make the “Happy Mother’s Day” phone call.

So it’s been a shitty run up to this day and it weighed on me in ways I didn’t see until I forced myself. Lot’s of people have lost loved ones and they manage to be normal or even pleasant, but I am cranky and moody and even judgmental and it’s unfair. This is my apology to all those Moms out there that I insulted with comments about “breeders” and “pedestrian lives” and normalcy. While the traditional family route is not a path I want to take, there is no excuse for me taking out my own grief at losing my Mother on those people who do this incredibly difficult and often thankless job.

Most of you are Moms and I have looked at your photos on Facebook and read your updates about your kids. I love seeing who you’ve become and getting to know those little people that you are raising. Regardless of how I feel about having or raising children of my own, I do support Mothers and I know that it is never an easy job. So if nothing else, I hope you all accept my apology if I ever made it seem like what you do does not matter or is not valuable. I can’t name you all, but to my aunts and cousins who I know to be exceptional Mothers, I’m sorry. To Jenni, Colleen, Shauna, Jenn, Kris, Michelle, Wendy, Jennifer, Shelly, Jena and all the rest of you: thank you for all that you do.

The world does not need more people in general, it needs more caring, intelligent, and nurturing people and you are all doing your part to raise them. I have a big mouth and my emotional outbursts that are better left to a personal journal often get channeled into my public blog. None of you deserve to feel like what you are doing is not vital because I’m having a bad day. I see you. I see all of you and I know that you ARE making a difference every single day that you manage to look into the faces of your complaining, ungrateful children and not get in the car and drive to Mexico. Thanks for having the patience and the love to be Moms, because the world needs you and so do I.

Day 340: Shouldn't We All be "Fixer-Uppers"?

Alright, so I write one damn blog about feeling like my life is falling apart and now I’ve got friends coming out of the woodwork trying to “fix” it. I know I’m no stranger to unhappiness, negativity or complaining, but give a woman a break! I do recognize that life holds many positive and beautiful things and that my life is full of things for which to be grateful. Even so, please do not feel that you need to tell me of my many blessings. I’d rather you simply shake your head in scorn and talk about me behind my back.

Don’t presume to tell me that I should be happy or feel blessed. I see the good, I’m not that selfish or ungrateful, but I also realize that there are people in the world (many of whom I know) who have had ridiculous good luck and fortunate turns of event. Some people are just luckier than others and some people are not as introspective or analytical. Maybe I just analyze the details more, maybe I worry more, maybe I’m just fucking exhausted at worrying and working and never getting ahead. I am not one of the masses who is content to get married young, have children, work my ass off and die with nothing to show for it but a pedestrian life.

I hate the ordinary. Which is not to say that plenty of you with what can be considered typical lives are not extraordinary. I have family members who work, marry, breed, have picket fences, etc., but who have also overcome extraordinary circumstances or raised children who turn out to be remarkable people. I realize that from what appears to be “normal” can come the amazing. I also know that I don’t want to be in a position to be the exception or mired in the middle. I have always longed for something different, so when I complain about the path I am on, it’s not because my life is so bad, it’s that my life is so normal.

We all need different things to thrive. For some, it’s the sweet smile of their child, the loving embrace of their partner, or flourishing flowers in their garden, but for me it is and always has been something outside of the ordinary. That is not to say that one is better than the other, but our needs are different and what I need is not happening for me, hence the feeling that life is getting away from me.

So please do not feel the need to tell me it will get better or to count my blessings. I get that and understand the good, I just want more and quite frankly, so should you. Why is “more” considered too much? Just because I am not satisfied with my life does not mean there is something wrong with me, maybe there is something wrong with those of you who are content. Life is not something to be endured or survived, we should be perpetually striving for more because comfortableness leads to complacency.

Yes, life has its ups and downs and I have plenty of wonderful people and things in my life, those are not things I want to change so I don’t feel the need to dwell on them. No, I obsess, point out and lament those aspects of my life that I am unhappy with, because for me that is how I will know what to change and overcome. I have weak moments like everyone, I just make mine public, because that is how I dispel the negative energy. Think of me as a sort of catch and release emotional vessel who picks up negative energy along the way and instead of internalizing it, I let it out. I know I’ll be fine and my road may never be the fortunate path, but it’s mine and I’m navigating the best I can.