On Effort

Do you catch yourself doing the most to do the absolute least? My special recipe for crazy involves putting capital 'E' Effort into problems with very simple solutions. I'm on a spiritual quest for the perfect dry shampoo that makes my hair look clean and shiny and not at all like I burn the shit out of it every day to make it curly, but not like it curls naturally, and straight, but not straight straight. I could wash my hair. I've carefully curated at least three pairs of quirky, but cute blue light blocking glasses to wear so I don't get headaches. I could stop watching the tv, phone and computer all at the same time for 91 hours a day. I like to take long soaks in the tub and spiral out worrying about whether my kids will think I was a good mother or too distant or too critical or too doting or...or...or. I have clear visions of their therapists' offices and the autobiographies they'll write. It's my very own Mommie Dearest/Psycho mashup. I could let the water out and go watch a Youtube video with them about where to get the best french fries. I take measurable time to carefully fold all of my underwear and socks, ninety percent of which are black. Then, I blindly root through them while I'm half awake stirring up a tornado of cotton blend and satin. I could skip a step and just throw it all in there to begin with. I wouldn't really call this lazy. My lazy looks like letting something go a second time through the dishwasher as if a new level will be unlocked that can get day old scrambled eggs off better than the first run. Never say I don't believe in miracles. No, this lives somewhere between type A personality and undiagnosed fill in the blank.

     Hello from the future. This old relic has been on my mind and I'll be damned if it doesn't still exist in these outer reaches of the internet. I won't share it on Facebook and no one will see it, but here it is like a moldy old year book. I'm still her, but what a laugh and a heartbreak to read my old words. I'm not a recent law school graduate or a new mom. My mother died. I'm not in the same house or the house we bought next. I had another kid. I got divorced and remarried. I have three stepdaughters. I got another job, but Max is still pooting next to me on the couch and I'm still my own favorite audience for dumb jokes.

    I'm 37. I'm middle management and quickly approaching middle age. I'm pretty sure I've got a fair amount of grey hair, but highlights keep my secrets. I have a 401k and a 20th high school reunion right around the corner. I have children that know more about pop culture (and everything else) than I do. 

   

    Speaking of culture. I can't think of anything less cool than a blog in 2022, but I think that might be what's drawing me back in. One of my favorite things about getting older and knocked down a few good times is that I am so much freer from caring about doing it right. I can still worry a hole through the wall, though. My changing face and not being the youngest in the meeting anymore has a grip on me right now, but I know its just this stage. I know I'll come out on the other side like we always do, with new wisdom and fewer fears. 

    All of this to say, I think I'll visit again soon.