I live in a nice house. Not extravagant. Not palatial. But nice and comfortable. I should be thankful, and I am.
Sometimes, I fantasize about living in a smaller house, or returning to that 2-bedroom waterfront apartment we lived in once. Most of the time, this fantasy comes to mind when I’m driving to work on Monday mornings, thinking about all the chores that still need to be finished or house work that should have been done better. The bb gun hole through one pane in the window needs to be repaired. Gotta call the lawn care crew to come out and check on the shrub. I forgot to inventory the 2nd pantry (yes, I have two) for dinner ingredients. Oh, right, a heating element needs replacing…
I don’t remember having so many worries when we lived in that lovely 2-bedroom apartment with the gorgeous view of the lake.
And then, there are those days, after sending Ty to school (you know how much I love our morning routines), I look around my sun-filled house and wish I weren’t in a hurry to leave it and head to an office. There are so many things to do and enjoy here, but no one’s home to do and enjoy them. The piano sits silently in the living room. The Chinese watercolor scrolls in the dining room don’t get the regular admirations they deserve. The guest washroom only gets monthly cleaning because we seldom have guests over. Heck, the guest bedroom still has that new house smell when I occasionally open the door to retrieve something from the closet. There’s a huge yard: front, side and back, and I could only wish there were foot traffic on that grass so I might get a chance to complain about how the lawn got ruined during our last party. There is no party, ever. Ty actually took a picture of the flowers in our backyard and text’d it to me a few weeks ago, because he knows I’m never home to see them.
I’m missing out on my own life, let alone that of my good friends and relatives. And I’m frustrated about it.