Seriously, you may find this hard to believe, but despite all that is great about my life (including my wonderful husband and my adorable children), I don’t consider myself a happy person. In fact, I am usually quite sullen, and I normally want to choke people who walk around with the little happy face symbols on their tee shirts and the even bigger smiles on their faces. Still, my friends and co-workers are quick to tell me I have a positive attitude and that I inspire them by always being so optimistic.
If only they could see the other me. The me who cries for hours at most movies endings—the happy ones and the sad ones. The me who once watched an episode of Snapped and didn’t sleep for three days out of fear her husband’s non-existent girlfriend would shoot her in the head while she was sleeping. (Let me tell you—he really hated the Oxygen channel after being forced to sleep on the couch for three nights. That’s probably why we don’t have Oxygen now.) Then there is the me who complains and cries about her weight and inability to find something to wear that doesn’t make her look pregnant, yet at the same time, it’s the same me who kicks my scale every morning because it never deletes the pounds that come with the “see food, eat it” diet that she loves so much.
These people don’t know the me that every day questions and mourns over my place in this world. I need to know if I am a good school teacher. Does what I do each day help make a difference in the world? Or am I simply wasting my time when I could be at home watching shows with real educational influence like Jerry Springer and the Steve Wilkos show?
Even more important to me is an ever present question that never leaves my mind. Am I a good mother? Am I better than my own mother? Have I taught my children well? Will they be successful in life? Do my children even like me? How long will Laura, my nineteen year old daughter stay a virgin? Oh God, she better still be a virgin!! I did have that birth control talk with her, didn’t I? Has my eleven year old, Danielle, kissed her first boy, and I wasn’t there to kill him. Is Danielle still taking things that don’t belong to her? And my husband.
Has he ever thought about cheating on me? Does he smile at the female cashiers at Chick-Fil-A on his lunch break? Do they give him extra fries? Is he always at work when he says he is? Does he already have a list of women to date after my departure to the place where it is forever sunny and the Mai Tais are always tasty and free?
After all that, there is still me to worry about. Why do I have a pig nose? Why can’t I curl my hair right? Why are my breasts so big? They have only been sagging since birth. Why does cotton underwear give me a rash? FYI, it’s hard for a plus size sexy like me to find silk panties in my size—so if you know of a great place, please share.
Even more troublesome (and yes there is life after panties) to me are my concerns about death. Does the actual dying itself hurt? What is going to happen to me when I die? What happens when my life ends? Can I still see my family afterwards? Will I still be a part of their lives? I don’t want to die.
Trust me—I could cry all day, and some Saturday mornings, I actually take a little time to rest in bed and cry. Sometimes I cry for a just a few moments. Sometimes I cry for an hour. Once I believe I even wallowed in my own tub of pity for half a day.
