Debbie Downer

Yesterday afternoon I got dolled up.  It was our end-of-the-year track awards banquet and I thought that for once?  It would be nice to arrive somewhere NOT looking like I'd been dragged behind a carriage as my mode of transportation.  Sydney sat nicely in her pack-n-play as I showered AND shaved my legs, applied makeup INCLUDING eyeshadow (which I only bust out on the rarest of occasions.  You'd better believe I had Rebecca Wolff's voice in my head saying "crease, crease, crease"), blow-dried my hair ALL THE WAY and even ran my big barrel curling iron through it and set with hairspray.  I put on one of my bangin' new maxi-dresses, some jingly bracelets (which I immediately had to relinquish to my daughter, oh well), and by the end of the 30 minute ordeal?  I was looking pretty dang hot if I do say so myself.  I put a dress on Syd and topped her off with her flower headband and rolled off to the pizza joint to help award our high schoolers for a long season of hard work. 

Too bad that the air conditioning wasn't working in the back room where we had our little meeting – either that or they had the pizza oven vent pointed that way – and soon I was covered head to toe in a layer of sweat.  My hair was limp, the eyeshadow I had so carefully applied sank into lines that you don't want accentuated, and for extra fun, a sweat mark gradually grew larger and larger on my back.  As I stood in front of my track team telling them how proud they'd made us all season, my over-heated daughter spit up on me. TWICE.


Since I've lost some weight my pants now fit, uh, differently.  Jeans that only a month ago only fit when nicely stretched out over the course of 2-3 (ok maybe 4) wearings are now bagging off of me right out of the wash.  It's a sign of victory!  BUT!  Baggy jeans means that your butt is always hanging out.  And that means?  That your husband (and others) will point out your visible butt crack in many creative ways:

"Say NO to crack!"
"Crack kills!"
"Oh sorry, I'm all out of quarters."
"It's a full moon tonight!"
"I didn't know you're a plumber!"
"Crack is whack."
"Coach Hud I didn't know you had a tattoooooooo!!!!"

And so on.  When you have a baby you're ALWAYS bending over.  Combine this with baggy pants and YEAH.  Lots of people end up seeing yer kiester.  Even when you're wearing a belt.

(and yes I just illustrated my point about my butt hanging out WITH A PHOTO)

Lately it's hard for me to do anything nice for myself … and it seems like when I do it just ends up getting dashed against the rocks anyway.  There's yesterday's attempt to look nice for once, and there's also the manicures I get/give myself that are immediately chipped and destroyed by dishwashing or picking gum off the bottom of my shoe or whatever.  There's the fact that I need a haircut desperately but I can't manage to make the time (or the appointment) because I can't decide whether to hack my hair off Mom-style or just get it trimmed and give styling – aka WORK — another chance.  There are my clothes that no longer fit properly (and yet I insist on wearing them) because I've lost weight.  Even when I wash the stupid dog he goes out to immediately roll in the dirt and get stinky JUST TO SPITE ME …

Trying takes so much ENERGY lately.  I can't put my finger on it, except to say that it sucks.  And it's wrong that it seems like this impossible mountain to climb.   I deserve to look nice and not have it get immediately crapped on by the universe.  My marriage and my friendships deserve time and energy.  I can bother to return a few phone calls now and then for crying out loud.  But the competing voices in my head get loud sometimes.  And there's always something to clean.  And the baby always needs me.  And I'm always so tired.  And crap can I just have ONE MINUTE to myself?  Can the laundry I just got done or the kitchen I just cleared last longer then 30 minutes FOR ONCE?  Good grief I JUST cleaned the floor and Juicy HAD to pee on it.  It all makes me want to cuss in multi-hyphenated cuss words sometimes.  It makes me want to break dishes on the floor I get so frustrated with everything I do constantly getting undone. 

(I half expect this blog entry to get accidentally deleted any moment now, by the way)

And then?  I pull my head out of my butt for a moment and look around me.  Couples we know and love are splitting up left and right.  There are some kids on my track team that go home and don't have enough to eat.  Lots of people are out of work.  I have a beautiful, healthy, social baby girl while others?  Have none at all or worse LOSE the ones they do have.  People in China don't even have a choice about how many kids they're allowed to have and my husband and I casually shoot the breeze about how far apart we'd like our children to be in age.  We don't even think about whether or not we'll be able to get pregnant, because so far?  Not an issue.  We fuss at each other constantly and are terribly impatient with one another about EVERYTHING because we're so damn confident in our love for each other. PATHETIC.

What I'm trying to say is that of most of the people I know, I'm the LEAST oppressed person I can think of.  My life is pretty freakin' awesome.  And yet?  I allow stupid stuff like makeup and dirty dishes to cloud over me LIKE THEY MATTER.

What is UP with that?


2 thoughts on “Debbie Downer

  1. Lizzie says:

    I hear where you’re coming from. It’s like waking up, isn’t it? When you look around and think, “Gosh were all these blessings here THIS WHOLE TIME? Where was my head?”

    Although, I have to add that sometimes makeup and clean dishes do matter – albeit a very little.

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