The Fabric

Sick and exhausted. Doing laundry and questioning my own existence.

The usual for a Wednesday night.

I am hoping to make it in to work tomorrow. I have been sick with flu-like symptoms since Monday. My thermometer, ever-inept, has told me consistently that I am running a temperature of 96.9. It also told my daughter she was at 92.2. I think it’s time to invest in another thermometer.

I enjoy my job and the people that I work with. It’s too bad it’s only a temporary gig. Having to write a biography for a guest blog had me questioning what vocation to include. My illustrious career as a shop girl? My all-too-brief admin services career? I mentioned the military spouse thing because after thirteen years I think I perfected it, though it did end in shambles.

And it got me thinking, what makes a person who they are? Other people, of course. Our relationships and what others happen to think of us. Or is our existence more than that? If a person double-majors in the arts and no one acknowledges it, did it really happen at all?

I feel like I am a series of unsung trees falling in the woods. I feel like other than being a mother, I really have nothing to brag about besides my kiddo and man, she is incredible. Which is all well and good, really, but at near-forty I thought I would somehow feel more…what? Established, accomplished. In a career of some sort.

Instead I feel like a mismatched sock. Like the ones I wear under my boots at work every day, the misfits that no one sees. The ones with all the holes in the toes.

And about finding a match in love? That has proved impossible. I’m on a less-creepy dating site and still getting creepy questions, like hey baby, if your ex had to name his three favorite body parts on you what would they be?

Definitely the head, shoulders, and knees, buddy. The toes are thrown in at no extra cost.

I want desperately to give up. But the idealist in me springs eternal. And I look at social media sites and I see all these great romances. Even some that are not acknowledged by those participating in them. And I think, why not me?

And then I remember the whole writing-about-mental-illness-on-the-internet thing. Surprisingly few guys are into that.

In the meantime, there are always celebrity crushes, of which I have few remaining. One took his own life this year and another is currently mired in scandal. So much for dreaming. Even my taste in imaginary men is unlucky. Sheesh.

But a romantic relationship, real or imagined, is certainly not a deal-breaker concerning my existence. I’m finding that my writing is already helping people, which is a huge deal. And I’m always reminded of the importance of my relationships with family, in large and small ways. And I recognize that I’m an incredibly lucky human being for simply being.

Laundry is done and 4:30 in the morning is…gadzooks. Airport early. Goodnight folks. Wish me luck with getting out of bed tomorrow…

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