A Lesson on Learning to Love My "Forever Life"

I am just wrapping up my fifth summer in California.

Well, wrapping up isn't quite the word for it, as it's about 11 days from the beginning of fall, and we're forecasted for the low-100s all next week. But hey! That's 'way down from the 116 degree + humidity temps we had at the end of August/beginning of this month. You learn to take what you can get and be happy with it.

But anyway, summer is, in theory, ending; the kids are back in school; the orange/red/yellow decorations are out in the stores; people on my blogroll are talking about crisp air and autumn projects and quite frankly, I want to punch them in the face. Really, really hard.

This is not a healthy response. I know this.

So...a few weeks back, I was thinking on this unhappy state of affairs. And then that night I went home and read Single Infertile Female' s blog, and she was talking about her "Forever Life" and how she was afraid that it was going to be defined by fear and loneliness and bitterness and disappointment. What stuck in my head was the term "forever life". I didn't realize why until the next day, at work, when it occurred to me that we all, eventually, commence our forever life.

And I had just commenced mine this summer (of all times!) I cast my lot in with Himself, committed myself to a life with him, for better or for worse. I'm so happy that I did. But. Himself loves the desert; he grew up here, he loves the mountain and the trails and the deadly black widows and velvet ants and rattlesnakes and the roadrunners and the bighorns. He loves it here.

And me, not so much. I dislike being so far from my family; I miss rain and seasons and cold weather; I miss old houses and barns and fields and the color green...well, you get my picture.

But this is my Forever Life. This is it. Himself and I both have great jobs, and coupled with the fact that he loves it so much, it's looking more and more like we won't be leaving here any time soon.

If ever.

It finally sunk in that day at work. In the course of a few hours, I grew up and faced facts: my circumstances won't be changing, so what do I do? Continue bitching and whining and making disparaging remarks about California? That would only strain and perhaps kill my marriage. Quietly resign myself to it and act all passive-aggressively like the long-suffering wife? Unlikely; the act would be too difficult to sustain. So, the third option: Adapt. Like it or lump it or make yourself love it--and do so genuinely. And until you get to that point, celebrate the great parts and learn to cope with graciousness.

I think we can guess which route that I am taking.

It's simple enough--I simply try, day to day, to find the funky, funny, quirky, delightful, gratifying things about living here. I throw myself more into my job than ever. I make a genuine effort to cultivate lasting friendships.

But just now, I learned another thing that I have to do.

A lot of unhappiness comes from comparing yourself and your circumstances to others; seeing what they have and being envious of them. Now we come back to where I want to commit aggravated Internets assault against innocent homemakers on my blog. No so much with the healthy, there.

Just prior to composing this post, I happened upon this:











A real estate listing re-blogged on Hooked on Houses. I am a total sucker for these types of houses, and so I followed the link...

Only to find out that this house is in the town from whence I originally spawned, Milford, Ohio.

It's selling for $189,000.

Of course, I began perusing the link, ogled over the compact little rooms, the hardwood floors, the pleasing reds and neutrals. And then I caught it--that little kernel of unhappiness, starting to swell and explode--and I knew what I had to do.

I closed the tab.

If part of graciously coping and eventually building a genuinely happy life out here depends on me turning away from pictures of My Ideal Life, then that's what needs to be done. Is it sticking my head into the sand?

Well, yes. But whatever works, right? And I live in the desert, so at least there's plenty of sand to go around!L

Definitely More Poo than Wife

Today is definitely one of those days where I'm more poo than wife.

I have zero energy. Actually, more like negative amounts of energy. Nothing; all of my reserves are tapped. I'm exhausted, and all I want to do is sleep. When I get like this, everything goes out the window--chores, creativity, exercising, socializing. What energy I have is concentrated on: being up on time, bathing, getting to work, doing a good job, being nice to Himself, scooping kitty litter. Really. That's all I'm good for right now.

And this depresses me.

It's just that this nasty, insidious thought lurks at the back of my head: what's the point?

Why bother to exercise every day? You have to keep doing it, you don't really enjoy it. Why bother to clean the house? It just gets dirty again and you're usually the one who has to clean it and that takes away from the time you could be spending doing crafting or writing. But what's the point in that, either? Nothing you make is original. And what's the point in getting up, going to work, running errands? There's always more work, more errands, always in this infernal heat and sunshine.

No one likes whining in the blogosphere. It's so...well, bourgeois. This is all I have to fuss about, the dissipated ennui that comes along with a solid middle class existence where the worst problems I encounter are not forging for nuts and berries and game, or avoiding marauding bands of rapists and pillagers, or worrying about religious persecution, but rather, high cholesterol, budget cuts, the desert weather, and my painful cracked toenail. No, no one likes whining. And I try not to do a whole bunch of it, especially here. But there's no point in being anything other than authentic, and right now, I feel authentically crappy.

But at least I'm present.

And tomorrow's another day.

Together on Tuesday: Yeah, Right.

Here's a secret for you: I'm not so together, this Tuesday.

I've been back at work for all of a week, now, and already life is in its normal state of jumbled-up busyness and organization. Thank god for Himself--not only did he make me a margarita which surpassed the size of my largely-useless reproductive system, he cleaned the condo yesterday. If it weren't for him, I'd probably be a quivering stressball right now.

It's weird, it's totally psychological, but if my home is disordered, I feel so restless, so ill-at-ease, so not-together. I feel like I can't do anything until the home is in order.

So I get it in order.

It just doesn't stay that way.

All of my high-minded goals--planning meals for the week, planning my work outfits, setting up a chore chart--all of them fall by the wayside as I find myself struggling just to hold the line. Doing the laundry, getting enough sleep, feeding the cats, the kind of quotidian stuff that needs to happen every day, or almost--that's the stuff that absorbs my energy and attention. The extra projects, and the planning of a more sane life, that's all stuff I barely have time to think about, let alone tackle.

Wah, wah, wah. Woe is me.

In her blog, Organizing Solutions's Marcia Francois Joburg advises adding only 6 things a day to your to-do list when life gets hectic. I thought that was a great idea, but misunderstood it as adding as many items as you want, but committing to doing only 6 items a day. That actually works for me better than her original idea, because if I didn't add everything, I'd forget!

So, that's how I'm keeping it together this Tuesday. I'm gonna do 6 things, and call it a good day.


















Photo ganked from http://seamripper.wordpress.com/

This is not my life. But sweet fancy Moses willing, one day it will be!