The random gray and white cat in the backyard has returned, and he’s snoozing in the summer grass. The betta fish in the vase in the living room is lazily floating up and down with barely a movement of his fins, and the leaves on the trees outside the window are bobbing up and down in the lightest of breezes.
Peaceful days like this are rare. There’s almost always something to distract you from the simple joy of life. Not living, as it’s defined by the masses as always doing something to add to your life experience CV, as if your job in the afterlife is determined by just how many stunts you pulled while drawing breath. No, just, life. I don’t mean to sound like Neil deGrasse Tyson or Carl Sagan here, but so rarely do we have a chance to sit back, relax, and appreciate just how much potential we humans have to do within such a microscopic space in the universe. We’re so much larger than ants and so miniscule to the Earth, which in turn is miniscule to the Milky Way which is miniscule to everything that lay beyond it.
There are some days in which I question the point of anything. Why do anything if, like Ozymandias, it’ll all just end up blowing in the dust, forgotten by anyone or anything?
I’m not a people person. Never have been, never will be. Yes, believe me, I realize fully the irony of a not-people-person being a nanny, where being friendly, happy, and open and not having a short temper with toy-size human beings are qualifications number one and two. That said, I’m still not a people person. I have some really good friends, but I can also count them on one hand. The other, more distant friends, well, let’s just say I don’t always remember their names for the first five seconds when I see them. Continue reading
. . . One of those days where there’s nothing remarkable to write about. Not that I did nothing; I had a lovely day of nannying a playdate and then a trip to the pool with another family. My “long-term happiness” goal was met with a get-together outing with a newer friend I hadn’t seen in a while that culminated in seeing the second “How to Train Your Dragon” movie (which was just as good as the first, in case you were wondering) and unexpected Chipotle. No one can or ever should complain about unexpected Chipotle. So while I’m actually rather contented after today, long day that it was, nothing jumps out at me particularly to write or expand. Some days are like that, I suppose; like warm, fuzzy blankets. They leave you with a fond memory, gentle to the touch, warms you inside and out, and yet, in the end, it’s still just a blanket. Before I ramble on, I suppose I can make this a short post. It’s almost tomorrow, as it is.
One other mention I can make is a thank you for all the likes and follows. I’m not sure what about my posts so far has stuck with you, but it’s a blankety comfort to know that someone out there is reading this and doesn’t think it’s too terrible. I hope you enjoy my other posts better than this one, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
Today was odd in many ways—nine moms in a row turned me down for a play date; for the second night in a row during the work week I had social plans with my parents; and I got a manicure for the third time in my life—but the most important had to do with bra shopping.
Believe me, I know how incredibly vain and dumb that sounds, but it really was for one simple reason: I wasn’t shopping for me.
Despite my weekday morning ritual of self-loathing, today was okay. Continue reading
Today was harder than most. The itinerary wasn’t bad: wake up a little before noon, finally caught up on rest to be ready for the work week drain coming up tomorrow; actually get out of bed when a friend calls for help moving to a new apartment; go back to work to watch the little munchkins while widower dad has fun at an amusement park with his new thirty-something girlfriend who’s surreptitiously tagging him in absolutely everything on Facebook; and, at the end of the night, try to get back to my heart’s joy of finishing my novel. That last one, that’s the one that was hardest of all.
Why is it that, after some of the hardest moments of your life—my grandfather dying a month ago, for instance—you find the least joy in the things you once loved? This past month, I’ve needed writing. Craved it. My grandfather had nothing to do with it, and yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of lead bricks smashing my fingers every time they even thought of stretching toward the keyboard. It’s a no-win scenario: no writing, not happy; not happy, no writing.
So today I said, “fuck it.” Continue reading