The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Walking A Tightrope In A High Wind While Trying To Juggle

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The toughest thing for most of us to do is to acknowledge our limitations. The general philosophy that 'yes, we can!' is a dangerous one if you begin to apply it to every conceivable responsibility or challenge which comes our way. As humans, our bodies are not always able to keep up with what we think we should be doing. Then, there's the reality that we each possess a conscience, a distinct set of emotions which have been woven together using threads of past experiences and feelings, and trying to include a weaker thread, one which is set to unravel, makes no kind of sense. If it can be included at all, eventually it will become a hole, a tiny break in the continuity which will let all the other threads fray and disappear, slowly.

I am not someone who thinks anyone can have it all. I think that the idea of it is something which keeps most of us striving, but I also believe that once we've achieved everything we set out to initially, we will look back and see that we let something important fall away. I've done this, as have you, because perfection is only a bit of wishful thinking, so it stands to reason that we've all had experience with losing balance.

I'm big on balance. My favourite seasons are spring and fall, mostly because they are a nice blend of the extremes. I don't sweat, I can sleep well, everything is awash with brilliant colour, and I don't have to wear layer upon layer of uncomfortable clothing. Oddly enough, when I was younger, I often said that my favourite seasons were the extremes, the hot and the cold. Somehow, with age and a bit of good sense, I've come to realize that the extremes aren't all they're cracked up to be. I don't like shivering unless it's a lover's touch which brings it, and same goes for profuse perspiration and the need to shed my clothes. I guess, if I look at things from this viewpoint, I'd have to say that I like a smooth surface, that I'm beyond the need for drama, that I could quite easily sit in a late spring garden with a pot of tea and a book and call it my kind of paradise.

I used to push myself. A lot. If company was coming, I was up in the middle of the night scrubbing walls and baking cakes from scratch. I didn't want them to see evidence of my imperfections, which as it turned out, was my humanity. I would rock back and forth in the dark, agonizing over how tight a fit my then-life was, how nothing felt comfortable and familiar, and it nearly drove me mad. I would go to work, operate at warp speed emotionally and physically, leaving hours after my scheduled day had ended, feeling exhausted and miserable, hating everything but sleep and escape. I stopped living, in a way, only working and forcing myself to smile as I did, and it left nothing for anyone in my 'real' life who might have once wanted to know me. I alienated everyone, hid inside six months of the year, cursed the sounds of backyard pool splashing in July because I was busy trying to sleep the summer away, cursing the grey pools of water next to the mat by the front door when someone thought to visit in January. I became overwhelmed with all the negative feelings I was experiencing, the need to finally reach a goal no matter how unrealistic it might have been. How could I work so much and still have a perfectly clean house? Easy, live alone. How could I be a wife and mother and still meet all the professional expectations I'd had for myself once? Easy, don't be a wife and mother. But, I didn't want to be alone, and the fear of that was so overwhelming that I began hyperventilating whenever I opened the front door. I didn't want to go out there. I knew I'd fall eventually.

It's become a bit easier. While I still regularly agonize over what I should be doing vs. what I'm not doing, I've also discovered that it's alright for me to lay down my own laws. I am a mother, and I'm a pseudo-wife, and because I chose someone to share my life with who is as big on balance as I am, I have been able to maintain my sanity in both roles. Not only keep the sanity, but enjoy myself, even. He does as much as I do, which, I think, is how it should be. If women have no option but to work, then men should have an even load of responsibility in the home. I am always surprised at how much women are still expected to do, even though they are now working as much as the men. One of my best friends works full-time, has two children that she carts around to whichever extracurricular activity is scheduled that day, and her husband still criticizes her for her lack of imagination when cooking meals, or for the state of the house which is never really clean. Why is it her responsibility? Aren't the kids theirs, the house theirs, the dogs, theirs? Why should she be the one to fall into bed at night, exhausted and essentially braindead, while he gets to go to the gym, play his sports, leave his dirty underwear on the doorknob of their bedroom when the clothes hamper is right next to it? It's like the woman's fight for liberation only landed them into a stickier mess. Did we know what we were getting ourselves into?

Now, some women will say 'oh, that's not how it is with me. My man is sweet and understanding and he always does his fair share.' To this I say, congratulations, but you are in the minority. The thing is, as women, we have a different instinct about the home than men do. They see garages and get excited, and we see a kitchen as a thing of art, generally speaking. While they appreciate a clean, sweet-smelling home, they don't usually feel any great desire to keep it that way, which becomes the woman's responsibility because she usually is the one who needs the organization and beauty. So, because of our collective need for beauty and warmth, it becomes another job for us, maintaining the home base, nesting as it were, while the men go off to work and come home expecting to see a plate of food on the table, which, the woman is usually responsible for getting, preparing and serving.

Still unconvinced? Ever witnessed your man scrubbing the toilet just because he thought it looked like it needed it?

And, when we realize how much more we're doing, when we catch ourselves thinking mean thoughts while mowing the lawn (as I did yesterday when I got to the middle of it and thought 'wtf? Am I really mowing the lawn? Seriously?'), the resentment takes root. The bitterness floods us and the love is slowly chipped away by the constant rolling waves of 'pfft'. You stop thinking about how much you love them and you start thinking more about how you can't come up with a single reason why you're with them. Things, in effect, are thrown off balance.

I count myself lucky, most days. He doesn't say a word when I sit here, typing away, in a room with an unmade bed and a small mountain of clothes on the floor. He was genuinely happy that I made pancakes for dinner last night, just because I didn't have the energy or inclination to come up with something better. He bought me a Snickers bar yesterday just because he knows I love them, that they can always make me smile despite whatever mood I might be in. It helps me breathe, this kind of calm. I don't know that I could live without it now.

I don't think there is anything shameful in recognizing your limitations. I personally view the opposite in a more unfavourable light. For instance, yesterday's FTL prompt...well, it didn't happen, but I never expected it would. The person who was supposed to give it, didn't, but it came as no surprise given that in the rounds I've participated in with the same person, they've never completed one. Why sign up if you know you can't balance it with real life? I don't understand it. Is it because there are no serious repercussions for not following up? Do people need to know that there will be a penalty for their failures before the failure counts? Is quitting a passive-aggressive route around the inevitability of imperfection? I don't know, and I certainly can understand when people have a more pressing problem than meeting their FTL deadline because it's not going to affect much in the grand scheme of things. That said, isn't it just good sense, not to mention good manners, to honour the commitments you make no matter how small? Isn't it better to acknowledge the limitation with a polite, 'I'm sorry, but...', then to back away wordlessly, only to return time after time and do it all again? Of course, this could be my controlling nature. I have a need for 'game on!'. Haven't been able to balance that yet.

I see life as the tightrope, I suppose. I know we'll always have to juggle, but I've come to realize that for me, sometimes sitting down, instead of trying to push ahead, works better. You teeter, you totter, but at least you get a minute to take in the view.

I know that I can't do both, the walking and the juggling. I'm fine with it, though, and I breathe easier now that I have figured it out.

A step here, a step there, a minute to look around...