Faking it
Sometimes I feel like a big old fake.
I’m chugging along, acting like I at least sort of have it all together. I mean, I shower daily, I put on clean clothes each day and I at least present the facade of knowing what I’m doing.
But here’s a secret (or maybe not a secret if you know me well enough): It’s all a bunch of crap.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. And I definitely don’t have my shit together.
I feel like I live in one of those old-time Western movie sets, with the fake town made out of wood or cardboard or whatever, painted to look all perfect. But then a gust of wind comes and knocks it down and you see what’s really behind there. And it’s not pretty. All tumbleweedy and scary.
This weekend I decided to at least throw some of the crap that was in our driveway into our garage so I could at least shut the door and we could look a little less like the honyock neighbors with a spare tire, 12 cobwebby camping chairs, at least 5 planters filled with nothing but dirt because all the plants died, a random stock pot that I picked up at a garage sale (Why? Why?), a spilling-out bag of bird seed and a wheelbarrow full of old metal windows just all hanging out for all to see.
Shut the garage door and just like that we’re all classy and shit.
Or something like that…
And my house. Oh, my house. The laundry is at an all-time high and when I mean high I mean it’s stacked to an all-time high. Literally, the pile of mostly clean clothes probably mixed with some dirty here and there is at least two feet off the ground. It’s RIDICULOUS. But who has time to go down there and sort through it all? I probably do, but somehow something else always takes precedent. Probably because it’s a TAD BIT overwhelming.
I mean, I’m just a mess. My house, my mind, my life. Thank God I have a supportive husband and kids because I feel like half the time I am just going through the motions and letting life pull me along instead of controlling my own actions and destiny.
So many things on my to-do list that it’s not even worth making the list. So many things I’ve been saying I’m going to do for YEARS now. Still haven’t done.
Writing is one of them, and right now, it’s really the only professional-type thing that makes me happy. Teaching right now is beyond frustrating and hard. I love the kids, but the job itself is leaving so much to be desired.
I just want to go away for a month and do nothing but write. I don’t want to have to worry about writing lesson plans or cleaning up my dogs’ pee or tackling that laundry pile.
I. Just. Want. To. Write.
I’d settle for 24 hours in a hotel room with nothing but my laptop and coffee. And who am I kidding–plenty of chocolate and potato chips.
But that’s not going to happen, so I just need to take control of my own collar and give myself a good shaking. I need reality to sink in. My book isn’t going to write itself. By blog isn’t going to take off on its own.
I can’t just be a passive whiner who looks back in 10 more years and wonders where time has gone.
If 2020 isn’t the year to shake things up, I don’t know when it would be. The world’s already going to hell in a handbasket–why not see that as an opportunity to take charge of my life instead of letting the crappy year whoosh me along in its crappiness.
Anyone else feel the same way? Like it’s now or never?
And I don’t think I can live with myself if it turns out to be “never.” I can’t fake it until I make it if I never end up making it.