How I Scare Myself
I baked muffins this morning and am sewing my daughter’s Halloween costume. I kissed my husband on the way out the door to his office job. I get breakfast ready for my child and one of her playmates, who I feed and take to school each morning for a little extra cash. Later this morning, I will be preparing all the games and prizes and craft supplies for my daughter’s class Halloween party tomorrow.
I’m freaking myself out – the domestic devil has risen. I feel like I need a cigarette and a large quantity of unboxed red wine to wash the taste of suburbia away. I completely understand why 1950s housewives sometimes lived on valium and cheap martinis. I would embrace those choices fully, if not for a few saving graces.
I’m wrapping up the job description and transition plan for the job I am leaving. It’s a bittersweet project, but reminds me of all the things I am capable of doing. Tomorrow, I am meeting Caitlin Kelly of the Broadside Blog for coffee. She’s an experienced, sophisticated freelance writer and author, in town for a presentation at the University of Minnesota. I will be ripping apart my wardrobe to find clothing that does not smack of mom jeans and the unwashed heathen I’ve become, working from home and being a parent these last few years. All my Talbot’s business clothes were dispensed with long ago and I admit, my fashion sense goes more to the “will it show dirt?” mentality these days.
National Novel Writing Month starts in a few days. I am completely prepared, if by “completely prepared” I mean that I know the first word will be “The”. Once all the Halloween hullabaloo is over with, my work plan completed and my mind unburdened, I look forward to throwing myself wholeheartedly into writing to my heart’s content. Until I can’t – and have to drag the words, kicking and screaming, out of my brain. Still, it’s a shiny, new thing for me to do. It should keep my attention for a full day or two.
I could have never imagined my life this way – a life of choice, variety, challenges and being needed by causes and people better than all my decadent impulses. Some days it scares the hell out of me, as if it’s a life that belongs to someone else, and I am an imposter waiting to be found out. Most days I’m really too damned busy to think about it.