I was making my bed moments ago and stopped to write this… So here I am, much against my own policy, sprawled across the partially made bed typing away. Please forgive any grammar/spelling errors. My editor left me for paramedic school and I’m cross-eyed (figuratively speaking of course). Which brings me to the catalyst of my current post. It came from my having briefly read the editors piece on summer living in the June edition of Martha Stewart Living.
The editor’s article talked about her weekend at her family’s summer home in what I assume is somewhere in the Hampton’s. Relaxed summer days spent with family on the deck of their home, steps from the beach. Friday night starting with cocktails and shrimp, while steaks sizzled on the grill. Early morning coffee and conversation with friends, while little ones still slept. Dreamy summer days filled with great food, family, friends and drinks had me green with envy by the end of the piece.
Jealous and annoyed, I continued to think about this article as I fought my way through and over a constantly growing mountain of laundry and navigated toys strewn all over the floor. I thought about how I got here, right now in my life. “Why am I not an editor of a great magazine writing about my beach house in the Hamptons?” Sour grapes for sure, right? Okay, so maybe being forty-third out of forty-seven in my graduating class was not a great start. And having no idea what the hell I was doing in college didn’t help either. Then I got thinking about a close friend who was the total opposite of me. She busted her butt in school and was an excellent example of hard work and dedication. I remember being exhausted (and a little bored) just watching her. I recall going to her house one day in the summer to hang out and swim- only to find her bathing suit clad, in a lounge chair studying- writing and writing and reading. She’d been up since 6 that morning working. The pay off to her diligence was a degree from Syracuse and a successful career. The pay off to my lack of diligence- well… I’m not writing to you from the Hampton’s.
Tripping over more clothes, I headed into my bedroom to tidy up and make the bed. Straightening sheets, I began feeling just a tad sorry for myself. We’ve been a little stretched, in every direction, here at our humble little cottage. Nothing too serious, just a little extra life stress and added exhaustion. All things that go along with starting careers and having little children. But like everyone, once in a while it gets a bit overwhelming and you find yourself in a hole of self-pity. I try to avoid these holes, but sometimes they sneak up and swallow you.
Wishing for someone to call, but not wanting to burden others with my trivial woe is me sob story, I stopped to write down my thoughts- knowing it would make me feel better. You see the truth is, as good as friends and even family are- people don’t want to hear about your problems. Which is why you pay a therapist. And as my mother has said many times “Everyone has their cross to bear, if we all threw ours in a big pot you’d more than likely take back your own.” People are struggling with their own problems big and small. Money and job issues. The boss from hell. The co-worker from hell. They have in-laws straight out of a horror movie. A drunk for a brother or sister. Drug addictions. Eating addictions. Their wife or husband just left them. Brain tumors, heart problems, depression, anxiety- the list goes on and on. Even those who appear to have the perfect life- nothing is ever perfect. As the saying goes “You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.
So I’ll stay behind mine and whine here, as I finish my bed and breath deeply through the next wave of anxiety. I’ll take Martha and my medicinal glass of wine to bed with me; while I continue to dream about my house in the Hampton’s or Cape Cod and my editorial job for some fabulous magazine. The mountain of laundry- I’ve given up on- a least for now.