Gosh I’m tired, but I sit here with my cheapo wine spritzer and a burning urge to tell you all something- what, I’m not sure.
I’ve had more than a few rough patches this past week, “silent scream” moments that leave me glancing around for a padded room in which to retreat. This morning though, a few minor things happened that led me to a maniacal laughing fit on the way into work. Nothing earth shattering, folks. Just the normal stuff. Simon was up extra early, then I spilled half a container of rolled oats all over the floor. Then when I got into the car, it smelled like an old rotten kitchen disposal. I imagine the warm temperatures we’ve had the past few days finally allowed that spilled chocolate milk to thaw out and start to rot. Awesome. As Simon and I start out on our trip to the sitter, the car lurches forward and it begins to rain on me inside my car. It does this because of a leak in the seal on the outside of the car. It really only happens when it rains heavily. At any rate, when it started raining on me inside of my rotten smelling car, I just started laughing. Simon was calling for Chitty Chitty Bang bang from the backseat so I tossed in the CD and we sang the song on our commute.
After dropping him off, and jumping in a few puddles, I got back into my foul smelling automobile and thought to myself: I am 34 years old. I don’t think I’m responsible enough to be this old. Clearly, I cannot clean out a car. I cannot get anywhere “with time to spare” and furthermore, I’m irritable about the free time that I get.
Being 34 means I feel tired all the time, and it seems odd to me, even though I have a sneaking suspicion it’s been gradually getting worse with each year and I just now noticed. I’ve also noticed it takes a lot more makeup to look decent these days. And my hair. It’s falling out like crazy and what’s growing in it’s place can only be described as white or dark red wire.
Being 34 means 1 mile on the treadmill at a very very slow pace leaves me with sweat dripping off my ELBOWS as if I just did a marathon. Though my child is fully potty trained, I haven’t left the house in 3 years with less than 3 bags on my person, and one of them is usually quilted. (BTW, I read this hilarious passage from a favorite blogger about quilted bags.)
Being 34 means that things hurt more, and are more alarming than before, when I could just brush it off. Now every achy bicep curl is definitely an arthritic elbow, and every chest pain early COPD.
Being 34 also means that I realize how much less time I spend playing with my kid, because I’m constantly trying to DO something around the house or run some sort of errand and I just hate myself for it while also just want to get. it. done. So I can enjoy some TIME….that I usually spend shuffling him off to bed or into the bath or out the door in a hurry.
And in the car, while I laughed like a crazed woman with a wet spot on my tattered khakis from my raining car, I stopped to think for a moment about the oats and the stench and what a horrible tragedy the news is anymore and I just wanted. to. quit.
But for some reason, a thought cross my mind, about a person I barely know who lost their little 5 year old boy right before Christmas in a car accident. And I thought about how they probably don’t have a smelly booster seat sitting in the back of their car anymore. They would probably welcome a lifetime of raining spoiled milk smelling car rides for just another hour with their son.
And then I wanted to cry. But instead I told myself to shutthehellup. Keep going. Something will happen soon to make it all a little better. And I told an extra story tonight at bedtime, and I told him I loved him more than I usually do. I hugged him extra tight when the wind shook the old windows of our crappy house. And I ignored the mess of it all.