I want you to find it too. Hopefully before you spend 54 minutes on hold with Bank of America suspending your debit card, seriously, I screen shot the wait. But I was a minimum of ten personalities in the time between discovering it gone and finding it which was somehow exactly what I needed today. Oh, and it wasn’t even my wallet – it was my husband’s.
This morning started off with an alarm clock – and as such followed suit with the narrative of yep, back to work, again. You are tired? Sore? Just off of work? Second job time… I am writing about it because I never hear it talked about. For some reason when Rihanna sings Werk, Werk, Werk, Werk, Werk, it seems like a lot less of a hassle than the actual portrayal of a schedule…
I know there are many families where one partner is working two jobs or three and going to school, and volunteering for additional projects and helping out a neighbor or family member when needed. But the way they tell it leaves me skeptical… “Oh, Tom”? they say smiling, “Yes, he finishes off a 24 hour shift, and then drives home to make my favorite coffee and get the boys ready for preschool. Then he packs his lunch and off he goes to his second job!”. “When he gets home, he eats dinner with us and then it’s time to start on his school work”, “He is just happy I am home full time!” they coo.
All I can think is, really? He never has to empty the wrappers and miscellaneous cups from his car – evidence he didn’t have more than 22 minutes between one obligation and the next? He doesn’t ever wonder aloud if there is more to life than working one job and then the next and taking classes in between to finish the degree he started chipping away at years ago? More importantly, you never feel like an anchor? I certainly have moments where I think I need to go to school, or Career College, or an online psychic class to get my degree/certificate/crystal ball keychain. How can I so selfishly pursue a writing career in place of a steady paycheck when he is putting in a minimum of 48 hours a week every week?
Where are the people who are in my same boat, the gatekeepers of broken appliances, of the dead car batteries, or the increased insurance renewal policy? I for one feel personally responsible for life happening – and not really the good parts of it. I’m basically feeling more Bonnie Raitt, “I can’t make you love me” than “Let’s give them something to talk about”. If you don’t know these titles, I highly recommend downloading “Luck of the Draw” which I had on cassette at one time and really need to add to my phone now that I think of it.
My point and I do have one, is that even though I left yesterday’s blog with new followers (Hello! Thank you!) and great feedback, this morning before I even got out of bed I was feeling a little deflated. Hoping to turn it around I attempted to help my husband out the door, and when I started to look for his wallet it became clear that it was misplaced. I went from calm and rational – It has to be here somewhere (smiley, winky emoji) to worried that it might have been thrown out and the garbage men had already come (chin holding, thoughtful emoji) to I am a loser and I can’t keep a house organized and I what the hell is wrong with me (use any emoji’s you want here – I was a mess).
In my frustration and fervent prayer to St. Anthony (no matter what you believe religiously I dare you to try this, it has never not delivered), I was all over the map. Clearly, this was not about a wallet, it was about feeling like I wasn’t doing enough, that my contributions weren’t valid, that I fell short. Until it wasn’t. Somewhere in the sobs and rage and depths of apathy even, it became clear that the worst ending would 1)simply not be happening by sheer will and 2) be little more than a great inconvenience.
In the end, the wallet was wedged in the couch – a place I hadn’t thought to look initially because rare is the day that my husband actually lays on it to watch tv. But yesterday, as I was working on my writing and the kids played in their rooms, he had taken the opportunity to get off his feet, briefly flopping on the couch in front of “Deadliest Catch”. I guess in some six-degrees-of Kevin-Bacon way it could be framed as my fault that it was even on the couch. But I am coming to the conclusion (albeit very VERY slowly) that I simply can’t own that.
Though in fiction, I enjoy a non-reliable narrator, I am getting pretty fed up with being one in my own life. I needed practice at seeing events as they are – neutral occurrences, neither good nor bad and not necessarily a sign that I am the worst version of myself that I fear I might be. Today I was given the honor to do just that.