I’m writing this on my phone as I lay supine on my couch, balancing a heat pack on my troublesome lady-belly while I try not to drop the phone on my face.
It’s late on a Friday night and I’ve succumbed to that thrice-yearly yearning to return to blogging. Maybe it’s just the considerable amount of medication in my system, but 2018 has not started with the fist-pumping enthusiasm I envisioned on December 31st. A giant pumpkin still rules the free world. #MeToo and #TimesUp are actual things women are still having to discuss. And just this week we’ve seen 17 lives lost in another school shooting in Parkland, Florida. On Valentine’s Day, no less.
The world feels like a churning cesspool of crud and filth and it’s easy to get pretty damn depressed about that.
It kind of feels like we’re all wading through wet cement, doesn’t it?
On Wet Cement Days, I often fantasise about deleting all of my social media and figuring out a viable way to live in a Tiny House up in the Hills someplace. I’d cull all of my belongings down to zen-perfected levels, sell everything that isn’t nailed down, and buy a really snazzy laptop on which I would write my bestseller about mid-life minimalism as a response to the shit world we currently find ourselves living in.
Then I remember I have teenagers and a husband who starts complaining when his commute to work is longer than 15 minutes, and I switch on Tiny House Hunters on the telly instead. It’s a bit like eating low-fat cheese when all you’ve been craving all day is baked Camembert, but it momentarily stops the gnawing hunger for a different, quieter life, and thus achieves its goal in the short term.
One day, mythical Tiny Home, I will come for you.
In the meantime, I will probably continue to accumulate books I will forget to read and start stories I will forget to finish and that’s okay too. It’s time for some peace and self-love.
Cheese will feature prominently in this scenario.