I'm obsessed with life. It sounds so saccharine, but it's not. It's a sham. You see, it's not my life I'm filling to the brim with activities and experiences and memories, no... I'm obsessed with other people's lives. Fail.
I am addicted to other people's blogs. I pore through their pictures and soak up their words, anxious to read through their stories and understand their issues, challenges, friendships. I walk away wondering why I don't have the same contented thoughts and reflections. I walk away almost depressed... Things look so beautiful, especially when framed through the lens of a camera I won't be able to afford until I win the lottery. So, you know, tomorrow... or something.
I know it sounds lame. It sounds so craptastically ridiculous even I have a tough time admitting it, but it's true. I think the most overwhelming thing is that I don't feel like I have the sort of life that is documentable. That could certainly be just a matter of perspective, but whatever it is, it is definitely the major contributor to the fact that I haven't posted since March. (Disclaimer: potential explanatory novel ahead.)
With my wedding fast approaching (Stress! So many loose ends! Not enough time!), I spend my time in waves: either stressing about working out and limiting my diet, contacting vendors and securing down payments and picking out colors, and then mentally collapsing. My brain seriously vapor locks. Picking flowers, choosing cupcake decorations, trying to decorate tables with zero dollars, wondering whether I'll be able to drop the weight I want to in the last remaining weeks, wondering if that handful of chips will undo all that I've lost so far, sweating about how it's all going to get funded. And we'll just avoid how poorly I've handled RSVPs. I just... crash. Suddenly my bed and a book sound delicious on a Sunday and getting up to make coffee, much less taking a run or checking my email, seems like a monumental undertaking with all the enormity of summiting Everest. That shit just ain't gonna happen right now.
And it feeds itself... this negative energy. I don't want to do much, and so I don't. And then I wonder why I don't have hobbies. And since there's not much to do, I continue to wallow. And wonder what other people are doing. Enter the blogs. And oh, the wonderful things they do! These worlds of happy friendship circles and on-the-corner coffee shops and picture-perfect 4-year-olds smiling and do it yourself renovations. They all wheedle under my skin and say "why don't you *do* something, Rachel? Why can't you put down the book and write one instead? Why can't you put on your apron and try to bake something? Why don't you develop an insatiable love for running?" These thoughts swoop at me, heavy like summer gnats, and I try desperately to ignore them. I don't know what it means. Does it mean I'm just not destined for domesticated mommyness even though it looks picture perfect? Does it mean that I'm just letting depressing thoughts win?
In truth, I've probably crossed into an unhealthy zone - one in which I spend more time inspecting and craving someone else's life instead of cultivating my own. I'd like to try to remedy that. I don't have a fancy schmancy CanonBajillion, but I do have an old-school Nikon (aside, do you know how cheap you can get 35mm film these days? PEANUTS, I tell you, PEANUTS!). Maybe I'll find some beauty through the lense, soak it up (then get them developed and then scanned into the computer and then shared... ugh, the process ahead!), try to re-awaken some vitality and appreciation for what I do have. I want to lead a life that someone else can envy... but, most importantly, I want to be comfortable in it. And I'm going to recommit to blogging. Maybe if I share the stories of my days I'll be more inclined to embark on adventures, make memories, try new things.
This was hard to admit. But in my little corner of the Interwebs, I hope I find support, instead of judgment.
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