Upon Reflection I’m Not Sorry

Upon Reflection I'm Not Sorry

Join me in a wallow? I promise I’ll bring it around.

Through the amazing generosity of friends, I went away last week. It was the first time in…eighteen years? Something like that. I’ve run away for weekends a few times, but this was a whole week of near-complete freedom.

I didn’t have to worry about travel because friends rented a car and I wasn’t on the list of drivers. I didn’t have to worry about accomodations because they’d rented a timeshare at a lovely resort. I didn’t have to keep tabs on my life because there wasn’t internet (that was not in the plan, but I ended up liking it that way.) If I was hungry, odds were good others were too and we went and got food. If not, there was a kitchen stocked with yummy food, and a dishwasher to clean up after me. I took pictures of rocks and trees and snow, I soaked in a large glorious tub, I admired the scenery and I slept. Since friends paid for everything else, I even got to do some shopping. I had a glorious time.

Problem is, it made it really hard to come home. Here I can’t just turn the heat up if I’m cold. I have to think about if I can afford the higher bill. I have to dress warmly for a run to the grocery store because there’s no heat in my car, and the windows don’t go all the way up so I have to hope for a break in the rain. There’s a washing machine on the porch, but no dryer, and the dishes stack in the sink because the dishwasher here is fourteen and whiny. (We had a deal. I bought her the subscription, but she only fulfills her side of things after a lot of pressure.)

At home, the nagging, the responsibilities, the bills, are all on me.

Sometimes it’s so easy to feel sorry for myself. I’ve learned over the years to wallow a bit, then I pull myself out.

I chose this. Again and again, I chose this. My grandfather said I should study to be a nurse, as they make good money. I refused. I wanted to write. There was a guy, a nice, dependable guy who made decent money, that I could have married. But I chose love over safety, and I don’t regret it.

My job is fast-paced and demanding, but I’m good at it. I could be good at a job that paid all twelve months of the year. I could even move down to the district so I’d still be serving kids (and also still making education-wages, which are not good, but it would be twelve months.) That, however, would take away from my writing time.

This is the life I chose. I’m my own woman, and it does all come down to me. No one can tell me not to write, or what to write. I’ve lived my life instead of hiding from it, and I’ll go on doing so. Maybe one day the financial rewards will come. Probably they won’t.

Oh effing well. I’ll carry on anyway, and enjoy the ride.

I hope you do too.

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Writer, mom, widow. Anything else is transitory.

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