Radio ‘round these here parts typically sucks, this being one of those small Southern towns, heavy on the bro country and Prot pop (ugh); but every now & then it comes through. Internally, the radio has also not been great lately, due to recent events aggravating the ol’ AVPD, cranking up the volume on my symptoms, the paranoia heightening like spiny gray urchins of static, ballooning, blurring out even the good channels, the important channels. An objectively horrible person, tense, scattered, sleepless, this morning rushing out the door already late for an appointment I’d forgotten about, now speeding along sans caffeine or makeup, jabbing the radio buttons, seeking something, anything, to do the job of caffeine & makeup for me – when what should I hear but, of all songs, “Let’s Go” by Trick Daddy, a song they never play anymore, much less in this town, a song that I haven’t heard in many years – a song which bears the honor of being my official “coming out as a rap lover” song 20+ years ago, the one that I came out of hiding for back in high school, having pretended for so many years that I was too cool for that shit, turning up my nose at it, pretending to exclusively like the obscure, “cool”, “edgy”, “punk rock” stuff that the cool, edgy, punk rock kids would approve of, until one day I heard this one & knew that i could not, would not hide a minute longer. Windows down, volume up, sunshine, the cool spring wind in my scraggly unwashed hair! It’s ok after all! When I tell you it hit like a hefty dose of the best drug, and all those spiny edges melted, momentarily illumined inside, all fresh & soft. I know as a Catholic I’m not supposed to like this shit, but man, when I tell you it felt so healing, it felt like the Voice of God right beside me, gently whispering:
Tag: Life
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nos·taul·sea /nəˈstôlzēə/ (n) the synchronous sensation of queasiness and homesickness, of fondness and sorrow and disgust, that one feels upon returning to their place of origin/the location in which they spent their formative years
I was back in [name of town redacted] today.
The way it all comes back to you, just flying rudely in your face, lurking around every turn waiting to attack: the cringe and the horror, hitting like a punch to the gut and leaving you breathless. (Ugh, that really did happen.) I hate it here.
But also, lurking around the very same turns, the fond memories of innocent times. The sweetness and the sadness because this place is different now, and the place where I grew up will never exist again. A ghost town even in six lanes of traffic. The ache of grief for something irrevocably lost.
The way it all comes back to you, the smell of mom’s minivan on a hot day and those blue cushions in the kids’ section of the public library that’s since relocated. the obnoxious tune of that one radio jingle you haven’t heard in decades. Realizing how old you are and how relentless is the passage of time.
An abandoned overgrown lot where there used to be kmart – the smells of Little Caesars and hiding in the cheap clothing racks, small.
The way it all comes back to you.
How immediate the past is, always, after all. It’s just time, just days and nights are all that separate us from the past, isn’t it, which sounds obvious but doesn’t always feel that way – sometimes it feels like there’s a locked door or at least some kind of barrier, but it’s just days, nights, and days. You can go somewhere else, but you can’t escape it.
The inevitability of the place.
Like looking too hard in a mirror.
I love it here, honestly. It’s objectively the best place in the world. I can’t stomach it. The nostalgia. I never want to come here again. Get me as far away as possible. How could I ever want to live anywhere else?
When I die, tell them to bury me here: to return me to what I’m made of, dust to dust. It only makes sense. The inevitability. The nausea. It never could have been any other way.
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The man across the street: his Christmas tree’s
still in the upstairs window, every night:
hypnotic neon color-changing lights
still glowing, and it’s April seventeenth.
.
Should I like maybe cross the street and see?
Knock on his door, and ask if he’s alright
— his door, whereon is hung a gold and white
and baubled long-outdated Christmas wreath?
.
I’m scared to, though. We haven’t spoken once
in six whole years. His dogs are scary too.
I’ve only heard him yelling at his son(s)
(which to be fair’s a thing I also do).
But why the tree, when Christmastime is done?
Angry mysterious man, what’s up with you?
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Here’s a thing that happens to me all the time — does it ever happen to you?:
You’re scrolling Instagram and, because The Algorithm knows you’re a SAHM to little kids, it offers you an assortment of reels about SAHM life. Some of these address the difficulty of keeping a tidy house with little kids running around in it. These reels, they are designed to buy your attention by making you feel seen, “de-influencing,” “normalizing” the domestic chaos that kids inevitably produce. “It’s hard!” the creators tell you, sympathetically, vying for your subscription. “You’re doing a good job, Mama. Life isn’t always picture-perfect, and it doesn’t have to be. You’re not alone.” It works on you. You click “like” and breathe a sigh of relief and feel the tension melt from your neck and shoulders.
But then! You go to the comments. And who do you find in the comments but a bunch of Karens and/or boomers (or boomers in spirit) going: “Well I raised three kids and my house NEVER looked like that! LAZY PARENTS!” “With the time it took to film and edit this reel, you could have been cleaning your house!” — implying that, actually, it’s not okay to be messy.
As someone who’s naturally untidy and disorganized, I think a lot about this whole question.
Honestly, it’s only in recent years that I’ve begun to think about it. For most of my life, my messiness has always been in my blind spot. All through my childhood, teens, and twenties, I always thought of myself as a neat, tidy, and organized person who just sometimes lost control of things because there wasn’t enough time or whatever — really, I told myself, I was highly organized by nature. This continued into my adulthood. My MIL once called me a slob (gently and lovingly though) and I was positively affronted! Me?! A slob??! Just because my house is always messy and the footwell of my car is never not full of junk mail and kids’ cups and stray socks? I just haven’t had time to clean it out!
In retrospect, it’s so hilariously plain to see that I am, and always have been, a slob.
I don’t have an eye for tidying. If you’re a neat person, you may scoff at that, but if your brain is like mine, you get it. As a kid, I’d get yelled at for having such a messy room and I’d look around like “what? What mess? Oh, this??” It’s the same reason I was no good at dog grooming. I’d finish a dog and be like “ok! looks pretty good right?!” and my coworkers would be like “… umm… Mith? You missed the x y and z…” and I’d be like “?” until they pointed it out and only then I would see it. It’s like I live so much in the ether, in my daydreams and my own rambling thoughts, that I’m not really that attuned to reality and my immediate surroundings. In socionics I believe this is called being an irrational intuitive type, as opposed to a rational sensor, and having weak Si.
Also, there is never time to be tidy simply because I don’t care enough to make time. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t thrive in chaos! I like having a neat environment. (I swear the house is so much quieter when it’s clean and clutter-free, and I’m confident that you could verify this with an SPL meter.) But I have too much else on my mind, my brain is moving too fast, and tidying is just not a priority. Maximize efficiency: just leave the peanut butter jar on the counter. Just shove the papers wherever. Save time. It’s not even a conscious thought process. I don’t even notice myself doing this, for the most part.
That’s just me. I’ve only just begun to accept this about myself.
But I try. I’m a SAHM now, so I have to try. I try, but sometimes my nature gets the best of me and things get messy again. My purse, my car, the diaper bag, my desk. And, yes, admittedly: the house.
Is this a moral failing?
Here to debate this question with me is my inner critic, Catherine! Let’s give her a warm welcome.
*to the sound of canned applause, in walks the most gorgeous 36-year-old woman you’ve ever seen: 5’2″ (a couple inches taller in her size 5 designer heels), 90 pounds tops, or maybe 95 today because she is currently pregnant with baby #17, but she hasn’t gained any weight other than a perfect cute little baby bump. She has long thick hair auburn styled in a flawless French braid and pinned up in some impossible elegant fashion, and is wearing a modest but pretty maternity dress that is actually a vintage piece she customized herself at home, and carrying a designer handbag. Her skin is fair and flawless, despite never having any work done and wearing no makeup. She wears vintage jewelry and a prominently-placed brown scapular. She could easily pass for 23 and still gets carded when she buys wine. You’d never guess she’s a mom of sixteen and a grandmother of one. Catherine sits down across from Mith, looks her up and down, and doesn’t bother to smile.*
MiTH: Welcome to the blog, Catherine. Thanks for making the time to join us. I know how busy you are!
CATHERINE (whose voice sounds like that of a starlet from a ’50s black-and-white film): You are welcome, Mith. My older kids are taking care of the little ones. The household really runs itself, you know, if you raise your kids correctly.
M: Right! Totally. Well, on a related note, the reason we invited you on today, is to discuss the topic of tidiness, and whether it’s a moral failing to be messy.
C: Oh, of course it is!
M: 😮! Okay. Well. That was simple. I guess that’s our show, ladies and gentlemen! Lol.
C: [not laughing]
M: Could you elaborate, please, Catherine? Like why is it a moral failing if my house is untidy, as long as it’s basically pretty clean and safe and functional and habitable?
C: Most things are simple, Mith. It really is not that complicated. I cannot understand why you overthink these things. What a waste of time — why, you could be cleaning your house right now! 🙄 Keeping a messy home is obviously a moral failing. As they say, cleanliness is next to Godliness. God is supremely ordered. Chaos is not His handiwork. When everything is kept clean and put back in its rightful place, we are imitating God, and our environment reminds us and everyone in it of God and His goodness. A chaotic environment does the opposite. Especially as mothers, we have a duty — a serious obligation — to demonstrate for our children that living in chaos is not good. We have a duty from God to teach our children about what is good, beautiful, and true; this cannot be done in a dirty, messy home. Children learn from our behavior. They copy what we do. We have a responsibility to teach them respect for themselves, for their home, for the people around them… and we do this by modeling respect in the way we behave, the way we treat others, the way we do our work, the way we dress… [looks at Mith with unmasked disapproval] and the way we keep house. Honestly, I fail to see how you can call yourself a Catholic mother if you fail to do even these most basic tasks.
M: But listen: some of us are out here busting our butts, doing absolutely all we can, and still the house never stays clean.
C: Then you need to work harder.
M: Seriously? I just said we’re doing all we can.
C: Then you need to do more. Ask God to help you do more. Prayer works, you know, if you do it sincerely and with a pure heart. All things are possible with God. Our Lord worked tirelessly. Surely you can work harder. If the house is still messy, if the chores are not done, you do not get to sleep. Simple.
M: You know, some would argue that it’s important to make time for things like sleep, and creative expression. Especially if you’re the type of person who’s inclined to creative expression.
C: Sure. Make time for it once your chores are finished. Otherwise, you are stealing time from your family. For your own personal pleasure. How selfish.
M: Some moms would argue that they actually care for their families better when they have adequate time for rest and creative activities. Do mom’s feelings matter at all? Don’t kids need a mom who’s mentally healthy and taking time to fill her own cup?
C: Of course they do! A Christian mother must plan and allot a small block of time for daily leisure and relaxation for herself. That is her responsibility. It is mandatory that she get her recreation time, and model for her daughters how a mature woman takes care of herself. But when her break is over, she must get back to work. It really is not that difficult if you focus and stop dilly-dallying and looking at your phone so much while you’re supposed to be working. You will find you have plenty of time to keep a clean house — again, especially if you have raised your children well so they help out. This is easier, too, if you keep a minimalist home and limit the number of toys that your children have. It is better for their brains to not have so many toys.
M: Yeah, yeah. Easier said than done.
C: Excuses.
M: What if I have a breastfeeding baby?
C: Baby wear.
M: What if he hates the carrier, and frankly I do too, my baby is huge and squirmy and wearing him is exhausting and makes everything cumbersome?
C: You are not wearing him correctly. Get a different carrier, or learn how to babywear comfortably. It is not that complicated. Also, perhaps you need to exercise and get stronger so you can wear your baby. You look like you could use some exercise.
M: For f’s sake. Okay, what if I’m freshly postpartum, like if I had a c-section? Do you still expect me to stay up all night cleaning?
C: Post-birth, of course you need a break.
M: Yes! We agree.
C: Post-birth is a good time to rely on help from your village.
M: …What if we don’t have a village?
C: How can you not have a village, as a Catholic mother? What kind of person has no friends? You belong to a parish, do you not? Why have you not connected with and befriended the other women in your parish?
M: Catherine, socializing isn’t that easy, for some of us.
C: 🙄 People these days love to claim their “poor mental health” prevents them from doing normal human things, like socializing with their neighbors and fellow parishioners. Pathetic. People need to grow up. Things are hard for everyone. Why are so many people so immature these days? Teenagers refusing to learn to drive! Young people refusing to date and marry! Adults refusing to get to know their neighbors! The internet is to blame, if you ask me.
M: So, you don’t believe mental illness exists?
C: Of course it does! But so many people use it as an excuse to just be lazy. If someone truly cannot function, then they ought to be in an institution. Otherwise, their “illness” is not that serious. They can grow up and accomplish their tasks. Adults have to do things they do not want to do sometimes. I have sixteen kids, soon to be seventeen, and my house is never dirty. I stay up late resetting the house before bed. I wake up early whether I like it or not and prepare breakfast. It is a job, and we must treat it as such, no matter how we are feeling. Mothers simply do not have the privilege of lots of sleep. If you cannot accept that, you probably are not fit to be a mother.
M: Harsh! Do you believe that people have different personalities, different natures, and some are naturally not tidy people — that their brains simply aren’t inclined to think about tidying their space, which makes it harder for them to do this than for someone who’s naturally in tune with their surroundings?
C: All this talk about “personalities.” 🙄 People love to claim they are special! They are not. If you are messy by nature, then you must work to overcome that. We all have to carry our crosses. You have the same responsibilities as anyone else.
M: You mentioned above that we have a duty to demonstrate to our children that living in chaos is unacceptable. How would you respond to the argument that it’s good to show children that it’s okay to be imperfect, to accept things the way they are? That we can’t control everything? That God loves us even though we are messy?
C: You can show your children those things in other, healthier ways than by laziness and keeping a messy house. We are not perfect, and God loves us anyway, that is true; but that does not mean we should stop trying to be perfect. Matthew 5:48. Would you say we should just “accept” that we are sinners and therefore wallow in our sins and stop trying to improve? That is not Catholicism.
M: I agree, but, I don’t know, I’m just not sure it’s a moral failing to have an untidy house. An imperfection, sure, but like I’ve never seen an examination of conscience that lists “Was I messy?” as a sin to consider.
C: Sloth is a sin though. Not cleaning your house — not fulfilling your responsibilities — falls under “sloth.” It is implied.
M: Okay, but how do we determine when someone’s being slothful vs. when they simply need to slow down? People have different capacities, different dispositions, different strengths and weaknesses, different energy levels. Sometimes a person needs to slow down. Some people move more slowly. One person might be wearing herself out and still not accomplishing as much as another mom.
C: Simple. She is lazy. She must learn to be more efficient. Real mothers do it even when it is hard. I feel sorry for the poor children of those lazy mothers who think their “self-care” and “mental wellness” is more important than keeping a tidy environment for their family.
M: Enlighten us, then. How do you do it, with multiple young kids?
C: You let them help. It is not difficult. You lead by example. What a tragedy that so many mothers these days think they need to rely on screens to accomplish easy tasks, in which their children would benefit so greatly from being included!
M: Don’t you think maybe it’s just different times? In the fifties, there was this great societal pressure to look pristine all the time. That was why kids weren’t allowed to be kids, they were told to stay out of sight and not speak unless spoken to, and moms took those nasty pills to get shit done, and all that.
C: Language! 😤 People in the fifties still valued beauty. Everything was more beautiful before the late nineteen-sixties: fashion, decor, automobiles, churches, art, music, everything. These days, people are so soft on themselves. They believe themselves to be exempt from difficulty. “It’s hard to keep a clean house! I shouldn’t have to do hard things! My poor mental health!” Pathetic. Beauty is worth working hard for. People in the fifties got a great many things right that people today are getting wrong.
M: I hear you, I hear you. So, basically, you’re saying there’s no excuse to ever have a messy home, as a mom. Ever.
C: Correct.
M: And anyone who has a messy home is a bad mom who doesn’t deserve children.
C: Why yes. Neglect of home is child abuse and should be reported to the authorities so that those poor children can be removed.
M: Right. Well, Catherine, thanks for coming on the blog. It’s just been a pleasure. I’m so glad you live inside my head so I can listen to the dulcet tones of your voice 24-seven.
C: Sarcasm is sinful, you know. And un-feminine. [Stands to leave, collecting her expensive handbag] I will pray for you.
Ladies and gentlemen: my inner critic! Cue canned applause.
“She’s completely right,” you may be saying, as the applause dies down; and, I don’t know, maybe I agree with you. Maybe she is right, and there is no excuse, and I’m just a lazy parent because my house is cluttered and messy.
Don’t worry: my house isn’t that dirty! It’s fine. I sweep constantly and mop regularly. The dishwasher runs at least once a day. I organize shoes and wipe down surfaces and clean toilets and put away laundry. I do my best to remember to put things back when I’m done with them. There are no health hazards.
But still: papers and books and clutter explode from corners, I somehow can’t put things back at right angles, there are stains and chipped paint and dust here and there, things get impatiently shoved in places, things get left on countertops, and my kids spill stuff and leave things in haphazard piles everywhere, all the time, and sometimes I simply cannot get to it right away. So yeah, my house is a mess. I guess I am a failure and don’t deserve to call myself a Catholic mom. I guess I deserve to be ashamed.
It feels like I’m doing a lot. Could I quit blogging, could I stay up late instead of going to sleep, and clean more? Could I skip out on nightly TV and treat time with my husband to clean the house? I guess!
But, does anyone else just find it hard to care that much, sometimes? I know some people’s mental issues force them to stay cleaning, that clutter gives them anxiety and cleaning soothes them. I’m the opposite. I find it so hard to care about it! The cleaning! It’s Sisyphian! Folding laundry and dusting — sometimes it sends me into an existential spiral! I have precious little time in this life — there are so many more meaningful things I could be doing! Sometimes it leads me to conclude that the basics is actually enough, and some chaos is actually tolerable!
“But what’s more important than than taking care of your loved ones?” Catherine would surely say, and once again she’d be right, wouldn’t she? I really don’t think I’m going to win this one against the formidable Catherine — I rarely do. You can see how these conversations go.
So, yeah, I’m just gonna leave. Just gonna go… declutter something, or, I dunno, wipe something down or something.
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There will never be a good time, so now’s as good a time as any. It’s time for me to get back into reading.
Believe it or not, I used to be an avid reader. For the first thirty years of my life, I read all the time! I was never not reading for fun. I love books, stories, prose, poetry, and literature — always have.
But in the past few years, it seems like I’ve barely read for pleasure at all. What happened to me?
A few things. Mainly: I had kids. Four of them, in what strangers in public like to describe to me as “stair-stepper” fashion. My youngest is currently nine months, my oldest is six years. So, it’s been busy.
But other moms manage to make time to read for fun. Why haven’t I?
As you know if you read this blog, I’m someone who’s constantly plagued by a sense of “I should be doing something better,” “I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much,” “is this the most ethical way to do this,” et cetera. This inner voice has gotten much louder and more talkative since I converted to Catholicism and began to get serious about living an upright life. I don’t have much of an innate sense of balance, regarding moral questions. I’m an addict, I tend to extremes. Sometimes it goes haywire.
Which has kinda thrown a wrench in my relationship with reading.
For the past few years, I have a hard time reading just for pleasure. I have such limited free time, and when I do have free time I usually end up writing things. I figure if I’m gonna pick up a book, it should be for some purpose. Something edifying. Sacred Scripture or the Lives of the Saints or a parenting book or some saintly book. If I must read a novel, it should be one of The Classics. Something beautiful and holy. There are so many great books in the Western Canon. We have a responsibility to read beautiful, important works and to fill our brains with good content. I truly believe that.
And so whenever I go to the library (which is not as often as it used to be, because solo-parenting four small kids in a public library is a fucking marathon and always leaves me sweaty and anxious and mortified and completely drained, emotionally, mentally, and physically, for the rest of the day), I find myself just kind of paralyzed. Which Great Classic Work should I make myself read? Where to begin? — ah, who am I kidding, I’m not gonna make time for something difficult; may as well just not check out anything; and besides, back at home I have like six books on Catholic stuff, Catholic parenting and homeschooling, that I’m only a third of the way through! (On my limited budget, these are the only kinds of books I actually spend money on: the important ones.)
Don’t get me wrong. Like I said, I do love literature. Always have. I like dense and wordy books. In high school, I read the complete works of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ivanhoe for fun. In college, I was majoring in German Lit. I’ve always been a book person, since childhood. Like 3-4 of my many tattoos are literary references. One of my all-time favorite authors is Donna Tartt (The Secret History, amirite?!). I loved The Mysteries of Udolpho too. Before getting pregnant, I read the entire works of David Foster Wallace, and have read Infinite Jest three times start to finish. I genuinely love it. I love long sentences and beautiful language and profound stories.
It’s just, I feel like, in recent years, my mental energy has been depleted, and I haven’t had the capacity or the energy.
I have read some, in recent years. Some guilty pleasure material: I read all of Canterwood Crest (Jessica Burkhart), and re-read Riding Academy (Alison Hart). I’ve read just about everything by Shari Lapena; her books are dangerously addictive, proceed with caution. I read The Haunting of Hill House, after watching the show. And, also, some more “highbrow” works: notably: Kingdoms of Savannah by George Dawes Green; The Bee Sting by Paul Murray; Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, all of which I did truly enjoy (the former two being new works by old favorite authors, and the latter being more of an “I should really read this because everyone says it’s such an important work of Catholic literature”-choice, which surprised me by being, of all things, a gay love story).
But these were aberrations. And barely a fraction of as much as I used to read. And honestly, the busier I get, the less I read. The pattern keeps devolving.
Part of it is also that my beloved husband is more of a TV/movie guy than a book guy. He’s the one who got me into TV as a storytelling medium — I never really cared for shows, before, and would never have even wanted a TV in our house, but he insisted. And he showed me the light. I love TV now. There are so many good TV shows. Tv has become a big part of my life. And, in the limited time that we have together, my husband and I like to do something we can do together, to relax: we watch TV. It’s something we can share in real time. It helps us both turn our brains off at the end of an exhausting day.
I know, I know: “just listen to audiobooks together!” Maybe we should. Maybe this is an excuse, but I kind of don’t like audiobooks. The reader’s voice and inflections can be so distracting and affect my experience of the story. I prefer the privacy of my own brain. Also, for end-of-day relaxation, I prefer something with a visual element, because I also like to snack at night, and don’t like to be looked at while snacking (weird ED layover habit), so it’s nice to have something to look at besides each other’s faces.
So: I avoid reading for pleasure, and find myself just watching TV, blogging or writing little stories, or just scrolling the internet for fun, when I have time for fun.
Which is a shame!
A few things lately have moved me to get back into reading. For one: a bunch of you lovely people here on WordPress are always blogging about what you’re reading, and it makes me jealous. I can do that, too!, I exclaim pitifully in my head, stamping my little foot. I’m smart too! (Spoiler: I’m not.)
For two: my sister, whom I’ve always looked up to and kind of copycatted whether consciously or unconsciously, is a reader, and spending more time with her in the past year or so has inspired me to (once again) copycat her. To be cool like her. She’s a busy mom too, and she reads The Classics for fun! Why can’t I be like that?! Textbook sycophant little sister behavior.
For three, I know you can’t really be a writer unless you read. Anyone who says otherwise is being lazy and conceited. And, silly as it sounds, I still like to think of myself as a “writer.”
Four, and this is the main reason: I also just honestly miss it. Reading books is fun! Insanely fun. It really added to my life, much more than scrolling Instagram or reading Reddit or talking to ChatGPT.
So: it’s time.
The other day, while at the library with my kids, I decided: today’s the day. I’m going to get back into reading. Edifying or not, holy or not, I need to get back into reading books. Because even if it’s not the Summa theologica or St. Augustine’s Confessions, at least it’s better than staring into this accursed internet rectangle and becoming a drooling dead-eyed slave to The Algorithm.
I’ll even post my little discoveries on this stupid blog, because I too can be a book blogger, dammit!
So I asked Dr. Chat to recommend some authors, picked a couple at random, and grabbed a couple other random things off the shelf, and now, a couple days in, I am already back at it.
Stay tuned for upcoming posts to hear about what I’m getting into.
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the funnest part, by far, was creating new Sims: choosing their name, appearance, outfits, personality, voice, strengths & weaknesses, basic relationships, & etc. I’d spend so much time on this, on figuring out who my Sim was. It was pure molten fun, almost too much fun. I get a little ghost of a thrill even remembering the Create A Sim screen and its little elevator music.
Designing and building the Sim’s home — that part was exciting, initially, but it got boring quickly. All that constructing, shopping, installing, color-coordinating, making sure things were in the correct places: it got kind of tedious. I’d often rush through it, towards the end.
And then, the game itself: actually playing. Doing life. Events, occurrences, interactions, incidents. Eh; that was cool and all, but significantly less thrilling than making a new Sim. I’d often get bored with the action and just go back to the drawing board to start over with a new character. Designing the Sims themselves, that was the most engaging, and for me the most time-consuming part – the one part that I was a perfectionist about.
Sometimes, I get the sense I’m doing this same exact thing with my actual life. Spending all my time trying to figure out the character, rather than just playing the game.
Look at this blog. All this navel-gazey business of “figuring out who I am.” Questions that keep me up at night. My thoughts. “About Me.” Look at me, I am this way, I am that way. Personality typology. Daily prompts. What is going on in my brain. I am this, I am not that, I hate this, I love that, and why? Even writing this post, right now, I’m doing the thing. I’m still in Create A Sim, at 36.
Maybe this is a bad way to be? Maybe this is the wrong way to play the game? I wonder if after I’m dead I’ll look back on my earthly life and go “damn!, I spent all that time figuring out the character, and so little time being her. Did I even play? Where was the action? What was the plot?”
But on the other hand, ya know, maybe, this is how I be this character. Our society loves doers, but thinkers are just as valid, aren’t we? Maybe this is an okay way to exist. I do love a good character-driven story; plot is, after all, overrated. And I mean, The Sims was a game with neither plot nor rules, after all. I think that’s why my brain liked it.
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was not any of the animals, but: the unsolicited kindness of other women: the solo one who, while walking the opposite direction, saw my three-year-old trip and fall, and stopped to make sure he was okay before proceeding on; the field trip chaperone who, in the cramped and stuffy indoor desert exhibit, noticed me trying to get through with a stroller and barked at her pack of unruly adolescent boys (who either didn’t see me or didn’t care) to move over, there’s a baby right there, and allowed me to pass; the older one in the ladies’ room who saw me trying to manage my four- and six-year-olds while also trying to change baby’s diaper, and asked me if there were anything I needed; the college lacrosse player in line for the restroom at sheetz, where we stopped on the way home, who noticed me holding my three-year-old and was the only one of her large group of teammates who allowed me to cut in front of her in line; and all the other moms pushing strollers and holding tiny hands who smiled at me in quiet acknowledgement as we crossed paths: I see all of you, God sees all of you, & I hope that He rewards you greatly. Because women who, for no reason at all other than plain & simple kindness, go out of their way to help other women as we try to navigate this hectic world: you really are, imo, some of His best ideas.
MiTHology (4.0) 