A Third Life Housewife/Full-Time Middle-Class Retail Associate (Kind of Writer) Crisis
I was going to buy myself a new pair of shoes tonight but then I compared my bank account to my credit card statement and I realized where my money really needed to go.
I had a drink instead.
Long story shot, I can freely admit that my plans with this blog have not come near to fruition.
I’m still trying to figure out what it is I’m supposed to write about. I’ve tried with politics and would love to speak more of politics, but I find it sucks a lot of my energy. I know that my stance as a “progressive Christian” would mean something in the current political climate, but I’m still apprehensive of speaking out that much in public. I used to do a weak version of personal blogging, but my life and marriage has never proved to be that interesting. Most of the deep stuff comes out in fiction, which is why none of it sees the light of day here.
I’d always loved the idea of lifestyle blogging, but that mission requires time and legit dedication, and while my Instagram profile definitely points toward my love of all things vain and frivolous, there’s really only so much that I’m willing to spend talking about it.
There are millions of millennials younger than me who have more hits and get more free stuff and trying to compete would only make me more depressed than I’ve been. I can’t compete with that kind of ambition. I’m 30 and just discovering that yes, I CAN do my makeup and formulate a proper skincare regime. I just had a kid and have had to readjust to my new abomination of a “woman” body with extra hips and extra love handles. Now my baby’s a toddler and that horrible self-consciousness is over and it’s almost like feeling 20 again, like I’m in college for the first time, thinking, “THIS IS ALL NEW TERRAIN!”
But then I cruise through a couple of YouTube videos and I realize that I’m not a teenager with 50 pairs of Irregular Choice shoes. I don’t even think 50 pairs of Irregular Choice shoes would fit on my credit card limit.
My shoe purchases come from the money I make in my retail job. Occasionally I’ll sell a short story and I’ll buy a pair that really feels special, that I feel I rightly deserve, even if I have no place to wear them. I don’t go to the bar, so I’ll wear that ridiculous pair of shoes to a friend’s 30th birthday party and feel overdressed. Still, strangers stare at the shoes and I get a tiny sense of pride accompanied by a sense of embarrassment. What am I doing wearing these shoes? Do people look at me holding my toddler’s hand and assume that I’m vain and awful?
Is this the way 65 year-old men feel when they finally save up enough to buy a red Corvette?
Here’s some real life shit:
The other night I was trying to cook with Jon. We were making a salad and I dropped one of the hard-boiled eggs I made on the floor while I was trying to transfer it from the pot to the bowl of waiting ice water. Then I tried to cook some bacon and I burned my fingers putting the raw slices onto the pan. I immediately started crying. I couldn’t stop. I sat in the bathroom and sobbed stupid until my kid walked in because I never lock the door. She asked if I was okay. I said I needed a hug, so we sat on the toilet and hugged for a while.
Jon wasn’t sure what to do. He asked if I was okay.
I said I was okay. I was fine after I got all the crying out.
Hormones, probably. Right?
I suppose in this day and age, the best you can remind yourself is that you live in the first world and have a stable job and can afford to pay your mortgage and are happily married (maybe not by those dumb social-media standards but by actual real-life standards that NOBODY tells you about when you first get married) with a healthy kid after dealing with a high-risk pregnancy, and hey, your diabetes has been pretty top notch since starting that keto diet and you’ve recently lost eight pounds and now fit into a bunch of the clothes you shouldn’t have bought and YES, SOMETIMES YOU CAN BUY YOURSELF A NICE PAIR OF SHOES YOU DON’T NEED because you get expendable income from time to time.
Also, I’ve started actually getting to editing my novel, so that’s where we’re at.
It’s not all bad.
It’s not all bad.
It’s not all bad.