I’ve been staring at piles of laundry for quite some time. Channeling my inner telekinetic powers so they will fly off towards my brand new washing machine and speed dryer by themselves. I’m developing a massive headache and they haven’t moved an inch.
I give up and segregate them into three piles: polychromatic, absence of color and unclassifiable. And being the maniacal obsessive compulsive that I am, all of these piles must be tediously arranged so that it could be pretty enough for Instagram. I digress.
You see, my Facebook / Instagram newsfeed are flooded with pictures of friends… Pictures of travels and fancy shoes and nice bags and dogs whose fur look better than my greasy hair and wine nights and sparkly jewelry. And being the bright ray of fucking sunshine that I am, I start to wonder: Why the hell do they all look so shiny?! And at the heel of that question comes this: What the hell am I doing wrong???
Sure, I’ve got this Superwoman swagger down to T. Wife to hunky devoted husband, megastar mom to a charming and terribly cheeky son, hardworking marketing gal, grad school student plus I have a new washing machine and dryer and flat screen TV so my son could watch Despicable Me in high definition 812 times in a day. Sure. I could do it all. And in my mind, I could have it all. On paper, life looks peachy.
So I look at all these photos and start feeling sorry for myself. Out of 365 days in a year, how many days do I go on wine nights (4 for 2013) How many times did I travel (once for work, local not international)
How many times did I buy myself something nice (estimate: four times – 3 blouses, 3 colored jeggings from a bargain shop, a ring on super sale). And for the past two years, I haven’t had a tequila shot. All these numbers and tallying and I get sucked into the abysmal crypt of depression. Did you know that 10 out of 10 working mothers lose their mind an average of 3 times a day? I have become a statistic. As I strive harder for excellence (at work, in school, at home), I end up farther than where I started. This Superwoman swagger is a boatload of artfully constructed bullcrap.
You see, I WANT to become Superwoman. I NEED to become Superwoman.
Truth is, nowadays, I’m more of a damsel in distress than a superhero. On nights when my son wakes up crying and screaming I want to kick my husband awake and let him cradle Miggy to sleep while I curl up in a corner. On paydays, there are times I’d really rather spend my hard-earned money on that lovely Prada bag than buy toilet paper and dishwashing soap and chicken fillet. You should hear my pep talks/ monologue to myself on cold mornings when it feels so nice to just stay in bed and under the blankets and smell my son’s unwashed hair rather than get up and go to work. On Saturday nights, I seriously would rather watch Joseph Gordon-Levitt on HBO than go clubbing. Seriously. And I do prefer drinking chocolate milk on the rocks compared to beer and vodka and mojitos.
In short, the world I currently live in is a far cry from the glittery galaxy these current social butterflies of friends of mine thrive in. And as I continue to debate on which Downy variant to use for this batch of laundry, I console myself by saying that this is me, this is the life I chose to live. And I should be thankful. And grateful. (Superwoman resolution #1.) And appreciate the things we usually take for granted every day, like having a house to clean, a job, food to cook, family to feed and clothe and do laundry for.
So there. I will stop complaining and start being grateful. Excuse me while I go use my new washing machine and dryer.