Friday, February 28, 2003

Governing hormones! I am frighteningly unmotivated. People are depending on me. There are essential and even routine expectations of me. Stuff is accumulating, looming. Files, faxes and food, cleaning, cooking and calisthenics (not likely, but I like the alliteration.) I don't feel like doing anything, except sit here and make the keys on the Apple go 'click, click, click.' Is it unreasonable to lay the blame at the altar of feminine hormones? My private dread is that I am actually extremely lazy, but let's not go there...

The fact is, right now we are in the middle of a big, future and life-altering choice making period in our lives. I literally can't go into the details, but the enormity of what we are coping with has me transfixed like a slow moose in the face of an overloaded semi on an 8%downhill grade country road. Somehow whenever I feel emotionally overloaded my other systems shut down or at least slooow dowwwn. Maybe we have big plans and uncertainties, but the least I could do is get a haircut, fix dinner, clean a room or a table or anything. I wish I could set aside my anxieties, and manage the daily chores, get on with it.

As long as I am admitting my lack of motivation, I may as well add that I would love to be in bed wearing flannel, watching a romantic movie and eating a crisp green salad, tamales, beans and chocolate cake. "Do Not Disturb, Already There" hanging on my door. My friends are soccer moms, room mothers, career women with children, volunteers, fit and beautiful beacons of light to the world. They succeed in their homes and churches. They strive at work and play. They deliver a seemingly inexhaustible quantity of generous, thoughtful and responsible adult deeds. I wanna go sit on a rock and listen to my chickens scratch for grubs. I should not completely demean my worth. Am I the only one who'd rather not make dinner tonight? Am I the only one with a messy house, pies to bake, a present to find and wrap, skating lessons to drive to, with a Hefty bag of vomit laundry in the back of her car, whose four year old is yelling "don't look and don't listen Mom!" and birthday guests expected?

Sometimes I think I talk too much. It is unseemly to be so outloud with my passing thoughts and lingering doubts. Perhaps my worth is in my willingness to write about the good stuff as well as the moldy stuff in the bottom drawer of the refigerator in the garage. Maybe someone out there feels a little overwhelmed, feels uncertain; maybe they can read about someone very unMartha like me and feel better about their day.

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