Sunday, February 20, 2011

Snow Day Ponderings

It's a snowy Sunday, my one free day before an onslaught of Grandbugsitting, and what am I doing? Slogging around in circles trying to pick up around here while James plays in his studio.

What's wrong with this picture?

It's my own choice but I can't say that I'm happy about it. It's just that I can't play when my nest is a mess, and my nest is ALWAYS a mess. If there's not stuff that needs putting away, there's stuff that needs dusting/cleaning/scrubbing/fill-in-the-blank. And heaven forbid I start a big project when there are at the most a handful of hours until it all needs to be cleared away again before the Grandtoddler visits. So in my head I think, "Why bother?" One quick look-around tells me that the only way to get on top of this overwhelming job would be to set fire to it all.

Yes, I know: It's not going anywhere, so if I hole up in the studio I can deal with it later. Life is short, blah blah. You'd be surprised how small and ineffective those words are when I'm busy surveying my mess.

I envy James his ability to ignore work that needs doing. In fact, I sometimes suspect he's seriously oblivious to it. In the few years that he's been practicing his glasswork, he's created a crap ton of product, and it bums me out to know that there's an artist living here who is actually accomplishing something. Why isn't that artist me?

The thing is, it could be me. Provided I forego my dreams of ever having a home where I can invite guests in and not feel embarrassed about it. Or have a Grandmonkey visit without worrying that she'll hurt herself....

I cruise around online and find blogs written by tattooed and eye-linered 20-somethings about their fabulous creative lives, their Victorian cottages that they've DIY'd to perfection, their 3.5 kids who seem to be Stepford progeny, their burgeoning Etsy stores filled with clever items that are clearly Not Your Grandma's Needlework. I see photos of them in their cutesy pink-and-black workrooms spinning straw into gold while their kids are -- what? -- upstairs in the nursery with the nanny while Hubby dusts and vacuums? While I'm wondering just how much of all that to believe I'm comparing my own self to it all and falling so short that I'm surprised I don't just go back to bed and stay there.

Are their lives perfect and uncluttered because they're 20-something? And is mine like it is because I've lived as long as I have and accumulated all the crap that carries over from a 20-year marriage, the raising of two kids to adulthood, and the incorporation of someone into my life who is as big a pack rat as I am and has thirty years of flotsam to show for it?

...(Insert the sound of crickets chirping here)....

Hmmmm. To be continued, maybe. Because something tells me I might have to think about that for a bit.

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