This post brought to you by that chick from Jason. For the Love of God and when she sent it, I had no idea that this is exactly how I would feel by this leg of my trip.
I’m also confused as to when it became the “it” thing to work yourself to death. Why it’s so cool or special to be exhausted all the time, trying to keep up with life. Didn’t women in the olden days get to lie around like third base and look pretty and crap? Who decided this would be a good idea instead? I’d like to meet the person who said, “No, you not only have to look pretty all the freaking time, you also have to work two jobs to put gas in your car, raise children, and fruitlessly chase your dreams all day long. Good luck with all that!” Because whoever that is? I’d like to kick them in the cubes.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to hard work in any form. I’d worked since I was sixteen years old other than a brief time period in which I was either pregnant with twins, in the hospital praying said twins wouldn’t die, or trying desperately to raise those twins alone after my husband dumped me for a skanky hobag with inner thigh tattoos and a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet. And even that time period lasted about one year total and frankly? I could have went on the Jerry Springer show and totally made some cash for that story. Or at least a few nights in a hotel room in Chicago. But I didn’t. I persevered or whatever and went back to work when the twins were six months old. I’m not afraid of hard work.
It just seems like everything is work these days. Even the most simple of tasks has become work.
Driving to work without getting killed? That’s a job. Just yesterday I was almost plowed down by a 200 year old woman in a red car who apparently decided she wanted to be in the lane I was in. Never mind I was in it and you know, right there. She just came over. Even after I honked at her, repeatedly, she just came on over, forcing me into the breakdown lane. Now keeping myself from 1) peeing my pants or 2) saying some really unsavory things to a little old lady? That’s work!
I have this husband and I adore the man, but good Lord y’all. He is work. He is exhausting. He is constantly asking me to do things like verify that his eyebrows are straight after he plucks them and help him shave his back. He wants to explain to me, in excruciating detail, why his political candidate is better than mine. And he constantly, CONSTANTLY, refers to my blog as either “Jason loves Jesus” or “Jason. What the hell?” It’s a good thing he is so freaking cute and wonderful in so many other ways because that man? IS WORK.
Even reading blogs these days is work. My blogroll has gotten completely out of control. I try to keep up and catch up and I miss like two days and people are pregnant and/or having babies and getting married and leaving their husbands and whatnot and it’s all this huge soap opera and if you don’t comment enough people get irritated and act all pissy. Good gravy. I’m exhausted just thinking about it all. Being a blogger should totally be a full-time job and frankly? I think someone out to pay us for it. Even the fun things have become work.
I don’t know. I wish a lot of the times that I could find a balance. That I didn’t just fall into bed every night dreading the alarm clock going off only a few hours later. I wish I didn’t groan every time I look at the calendar and see Girl Scouts is coming up. I wish I didn’t have to write things in my dayplanner like, “Pick up children” or “Eat Chocolate” just so I can check something off and feel like I’ve accomplished at least one thing that day.
I wish this old world was easier.
But I’m too tired to try to change it.