I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how, for the past two years, I would get so angry when people would say “things happen for a reason” or “things work out in the end.” My book got rejected; I started making less money. I was bored all of the time. My life felt totally aimless.
Not to be a fucking annoying cliche, but I have to say, these past few weeks, I’ve started to see a logic to the sorts of phrases I was beginning to suspect the “corporate overlords” were using on people to convince them to keep buying things rather than kill themselves.
Does that sentence make sense grammatically? My baby is screaming.
In any case, as much as I would love to be a milliona ire best selling author who people call the “female Anthony Bourdain,” I’m happy I’m not that successful right now because it has allowed me to be at home with Cleo. It also forced me to really take stock of my life, and be happy with what I have. The one-bedroom I have with no modern amenities and a miniature refrigerator.
Having Cleo gives me a purpose I couldn’t find on my own, with all of the freedom and time in the world. I like the limits to my schedule. I love having to feed her because it forces me to think about how I feed myself. I love our family bedroom where at night, during stretches of time, there are five creatures matching each other’s breathing.
I am a person who needs limits to be happy, I’ve realized, and who isn’t? I have goals every day. I have to get Cleo to nap three times. I have to feed her three healthy meals. I have to walk 10,000 steps. I have to walk the dog twice. I have to shop for food, and make dinner. In between, and in the evenings, are spells of nothingness, and those spells of nothingness are way easier to fill than when my days were spells of nothingness.
What a sappy fucking post, but whatever. I think I wanted to write about how I am obsessed with the Middle Eastern market Sahadi’s, but that didn’t happen. It’s lunchtime in our house, so I must depart from my computer.