My psychologist friend recently told me: your first thought of the morning is a true indicator of who you are, what you want, and your current emotional state. This thought is not influenced by responsibility, expectations or fear. Therefore (according to my Prozac-pushing pal) it is an honest assessment of your life.
Of course, I discounted this theory immediately. This is my M.O. for all theories and other things, which make me slightly uncomfortable.
As Mammaw G. always said, “The truth hurts.”
And the truth is… my first thought of the day is usually: What the Hell Am I Doing Here?
I assumed this had something to do with the kids prying my eyelids open, jumping on the bed, attempting to pull my bottom lip over my nose for entertainment and then demanding cereal or Sponge Bob… or maybe it’s Spongebob Cereal. I don’t know because sometimes, the requests do not immediately penetrate my foggy sleep-numb brain.
But i since this pre-dawn thought often lingers into the middle of the day and night too – is it an indicator of unhappiness? I will admit, when I stand before my closet and survey the collection of Old Navy attire and New Balance Tennis Shoes: I recall the long-gone designer duds and those glorious freebies from Fashion Week. When I am plopped in the middle of some local conflict and expected to make a comment about someone’s dirty politics, secret alcoholism, or inappropriate and elicit extramarital affair, I long for the anonymity of a large city. And let’s not forget those rare attempts to indulge my passions: reading, writing, painting, and romantic interludes with the husband. During these intense moments, my mind is unfailingly forced to shift gears to less pleasant things, such as warding away witches under the bed, making the official call between Disney and Nick and fielding Boy’s accusations that Girl is “wipering her boogers” on him.
At times like these, again, I wonder: What am I doing here? Can I escape? Find a hut in some tropical location and sell coconuts bras for a living? Okay, so I miss long uninterrupted hours of sleep and silence. I miss the freedom to do as I please. I miss taxi cabs, galleries, openings, poetry slams, coffee shops, endless adventures, front page bylines, formal attire and an invitations to appropriate destinations at which these could be worn.
C’mon, cut me a break. I replaced a fairly urbane lifestyle with beat-up tennis shoes, an SUV, baby ballet, my own kindergarten soccer team – oh, and let’s not forget the booger removal and midnight witch-fighting duties.
In the end, I have no regrets. Fantasies of flight on some days, perhaps – but when it gets right down to it – I wouldn’t change a thing. So what is more important? That I often question why I am here…. or that I find the answer by the end of the day?