Photo by Jeniffer Araújo on Unsplash
Today was just a regular day.
As far as days go, it was as good as they come.
And still, it was hard.
The toddler was the same toddler that I always adore.
The chores were the same chores that I always abhor.
The friends were attentive and the husband was lovely.
And still, all of it was hard.
I am beholden to this life that I love from the moment my eyes open, sandy with too little sleep, to the moment they pretend to close to settle the toddler bed and every subconscious fear and fantasy in between.
And again. And again.
Most days that warms my heart.
Most days that gives me purpose and strength.
It’s the somedays, though…
The somedays that I spend compunctiously daydreaming about the misspent Saturdays of my youth.
The somedays spent remembering a little too fondly the days as an independent, determined, whip-smart woman with smooth skin and an enviable ass.
The somedays spent longing for personal space and meaningful conversation with girlfriends over afternoon cocktails.
It’s the somedays I’m desperate to feel pretty again. (Don’t. I’m not fishing.)
Somedays, I want to sit in the sunshine and read a book without asking permission or telling anyone when I’ll be done.
Somedays, I want to spend the afternoon talking to my best friend or my brother for as long as it takes.
Somedays, I want to not feel guilty for wanting a little autonomy.
Photo by Amy Treasure on Unsplash
Someday.
At the end of days like today, I’m exhausted from the guilt of every sweet moment I missed by grumbling about how burdensome it is to be being constantly loved and needed. On these days I owe everyone an apology but I’m so tired of apologizing for being a person with feelings.
Today I needed to write a paper, study finance, wash the sheets, pick up prescriptions, water the plants.
All I did was survive my petty day as gracefully as possible.
Some days that’s all a girl can do.