A Week in My Life: Uncomfortable Confessions

I would love to say my life is glamorous, mysterious, envious, or a combo of the three. I would love to relish in your jealousy of my fabulous life and swim in it till my fingers got all pruney. Oh wait. Did I say that out loud? *Clear throat.* But that’s not me. First off, I could care less if you liked or hated my life. As my father always says, “I’m the only one putting on my pants in the morning, same goes for everyone else,” so you do you and I’ll work on me. No judgment. Instead, I’d prefer if someone identified with my life. And I think that’s one of the reasons we have this outlet—to be real and maybe give comfort or a giggle or a sigh of relief to someone out there who is as tired of all the blog-peacocking as I am. (p.s. I didn’t say I stopped reading these beautiful blogs, I just wish they weren’t so damned perfect all the time).

Second, my life is boring…wait for it…just like everyone else’s. The only glamor in my life is in the form of my glittery living room accents. The only mystery in my life is where those effing socks disappeared to. The only envy in my life is towards the stay-at-home-mama that I would love to be, but don’t have the patience or courage to make happen.

Yes, I’m a self-proclaimed shit show. Yes, I trip a lot, say the wrong things, and probably drink too much liquid courage to assist my social awkwardness when small-talk is required. (FYI, SMALL-TALK = DEATH.) Okay, I’m gonna have to take a side-note on this one: Don’t EVUR think alcohol at an office party will “help ease” you into conversation with people you don’t like. ITS KRYPTONITE WILL DESTROY YOU, SUPERWOMAN. Case in point: This so-called liquid courage led to a whole boob-popping-out-unbeknownst-to-anyone-at-my-office-Christmas-party-after-my-husband-dropped-me-on-my head-and-then-flipped-that-sucker-back-in-while-checking-to-see-if-I-was-unconscious episode that is now etched forever in my brain. Thank the good Lord no one claimed to see said titty after many an inquiry; otherwise, it would have been the two-week-sayonara-to-you-good-sirs for that job.

Mere moments before… (circa 2010)

Okay, back to how fantastic I am. Yes, I admit that I am nowhere near being a parental expert with my one perfect child. She is in fact so perfect that she was the only kid at her Christmas pageant that spotted her mom and hysterically started crying while the other 50 two-year-olds stared with wide, confused eyes, alternating between my hysterical daughter and the grimacing teacher, and wondering if they too should start sobbing or if they should hold it together for the last stanza of Frosty the Snowman. My child is a natural leader in the hot mess category, God love her. And FYI she also has freaking LASER VISION! I was seriously hiding behind a large, doting father the whole time and can’t figure out how in the hell she spotted me. Oh wait…I am kinda 6 feet tall, so I’m not as cleverly invisible as I thought, but STILL!! Hot messes breed hot messes.


Back to it. Some days make me laugh at myself. Some days make me cry. But most days are typically uneventful. A seamless blend of endless sweet days, interspersed with family events, special moments, or an occasional weekend memory. That’s actually one of the reasons I love Instagram so much. It makes you pick a single special moment even during the most mundane of experiences and remember it, instead of letting it sit forgotten and unchosen in your camera roll. It inspires you to find beauty and memorable experiences in the most ordinary of adventures and to remember life not just on special occasions. Thanks, IG!

A random hike on Bull Creek in Austin.

As for day to day? I am DEFINITELY routine oriented. But it’s no fun to hear about the mundane parts of a week in the life. I mean really: Wake up at 6AM. Coffee. Get us ready. Drop Nina off at school at 7:30AM. Commute + audiobook = survival. Try to be a wildlife biologist or a consultant or a manager from 8AM-5PM. Commute + audiobook = survival. Pick her up at 5:30PM. Playtime. Make dinner at 6:30PM. Playtime. Bathtime/reading/bedtime routine from 7-7:30PM. I begin work again around 8PM. Or watch Homeland with my husband. Go to bed around 10PM. Get up. Do it all over again. Except for Fridays (my day off). Now THOSE days I pretend I have to myself, but they are mostly still dominated by the laundry and those damned mysterious socks. WHERE ARE YOU??? The weekends are everything to me. Pancakes. Hiking. Playing. Cuddling in bed. Whatever it is, we’re together.

Amelia Earhart taking flight this past weekend.

So how does this apply to you, dear mama? Where are you in all this madness? What can you identify with? Well, if you work, you can probably identify with me. If you don’t work, but can easily crack up at life, well, then you can also probably identify with me. I’m easy. In fact, I think of myself as the chameleon of my friends. Not because I change myself for people (gross), but because I am so laid back, accepting, and non-threatening that I am surprisingly comfortable to many different types of people. I have beautiful friends ranging from the most introverted to the most abrasive, and everyone in between. And I love them, even if I don’t call (because introverts UNITE! Just separately, in our own homes…).

You may or may not be able to relate to me. But I hope you can at least laugh at with me.

I guess I don’t fit “inside the box” after all.


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