space

As my fingers begin drumming out my life in this worthless diatribe, this anemic thrust at recording a forgettable life, the internal editor begins the tsk tsk tsking of its job. Don't write that. Stop. Hesitate. And in my world, she who hesitates is lost.

In equal measure, I love my husband's daughters and I am sick to death of living with teenagers. I was sick of them long before my son left home, and that was years ago. I long for a vacant saturday morning, no bodies to step over, nobody beating me to the computer so I can outrun conscious thought and get my thoughts down before the fucking editor wakes up. Light sleeper, that. When I try to explain how I feel, it sounds perfectly awful. I sound like some Oprah-fied I-need-my-own-space woman, and that isn't who I am. What I need does not exist, except in my own creation. What I suppose I need is to remodel the upstairs into a master suite where we can get up naked and I can sit in an easy chair and write on my brand new laptop.

Of course, I don't have a brand new laptop.

Yet.

Writing, as we all whine, is such an isolating avocation. It requires privacy and extended periods of silence. I don't get that around here, and there are so many reasons I could make it different. Take a pen and use it. But I don't. This is my tablet. This is my desk. This is the record. For the record.

And nobody has to care about this but me.

Changing the subject now...

I am self-centered. And beyond that, I am self-contained. I know I've said this before, but I've taken it to new heights. When I wrecked my truck, I saw it through, start to finish, and made sure the old lady I hit was taken care of. I rented my own rental car, and drove it. Shiny. When my husband asked me if it was covered by my insurance, I said no. He said why don't you drive my truck? I said, well, I hadn't really considered it. He said, You never ask for help. But its worse than that. It literally does not occur to me to ask. I have been the only reliable person in my life for so long that help is just not something that I understand. It isn't that I feel weak or helpless or anything like that. I just don't get it.

So, I took the car back. 330.00 later. and I am driving the big white truck. Our truck. Our trucks. Our. Our. Our. I wonder if that will ever sink in.