There are days I almost make it. I can almost smile and believe life is going well. Then out of the blue I’m reminded of who and what I am.
A close relative texted, basically told me to take some time, call a girl-friend and get a massage or my nails done, etc. Cuz, you know, that’s what women do. Along with drinking wine or shoe-shopping together, I guess. *eye roll*
I own five pairs of shoes, and three of them are backups for when my sneakers or sandals wear out.
I’ve gotten my nails done once in the last five years because someone insisted I accompany them for a bday spa day (their bday). It was my first massage, too. The whole experience was hell. Then the gel nail color looked bad within a week because of how much I have to wash my hands.
It’s been over a year and a half since I got a haircut–a fix for a cut I’d tried to get sometime before that. Shoot, I can’t remember the last time I even had a chance to shower–week or so ago? *shrug*
As for that friend I should call?
Wrote me off almost two years ago along with everyone else. No one needed my negative life messing up theirs. That was made abundantly clear over and over as doors slammed in my face.
So thanks, relative, for the stress and the reminder of how screwed I am as a singular being.
My job is to take care of my husband and get him through this latest crisis. It’s been that way for many years, as I was shown over and over that my worth is only tied to what I do for him. Any concern about me is wrapped up in whether I’m there taking care of things.
There is nothing else.