So . . . I sorta think I’m so low maintenance, that I’m no maintenance. And I hate it. I think I’ve been this way for years. Years and years. And I can’t figure out why. Why don’t I like to shop for clothes? Why don’t I like to get pedicures and manicures and get my hair did and be pampered? Why do I see nice things around me and watch TV shows with nice things and think, “Those things are really nice”, yet not work towards getting them. I don’t even pray about getting those nice things.
Is it that I’m so comfortable being uncomfortable, without all the fuss and the mess and the hoopla? Is it that I’m comfortable being uncomfortable in the current state of affairs that I find myself in? That I put myself in? Is it that I’m so used to doing for others, that I sorta forget to do for me? Why is it exactly, that I won’t spend money and time and energy on myself?
Is it that I’m a giver and not a receiver? That it feels so strange to be given, instead of to give? Maybe it’s that I feel badly when I treat myself, knowing full well that the money I just spent on myself could go towards something else? Or is it that I feel guilty for wanting and asking for and praying for those nice things, while so many people don’t even have the things that I have right now? Food. Shelter. Safety. Clothing. What exactly is it with me?
It might be that sometimes my brain is fried and I can’t see myself clearly to even know what I want. What my tastes are. What I deserve. It may be that I’m so busy knowing what’s good for everyone else, that I sorta can’t figure myself out.
Is it the nurturer in me? Is it my need to see to it that everyone else is comfortable and looks nice and well kempt? I mean, I’m not unkempt. I’m just not up to date kempt.
It may simply be that I’m tired. I’m just plain tired. My brain is tired. My emotions are tired. My skin is tired. I’m tired. I’m tired of thinking and doing and praying and wondering and dreaming and hoping and planning and budgeting and all the rest of the “ings” that I forgot to mention. I think I’m so friggin’ tired that when everyone else is settled and cared for and fawned over, I’m too tired to focus on me. To pamper me. To care for me. And that’s the truth.
I so just want to exist.
At the end of the work week, I don’t want to leave my house. I don’t want to see a car. I don’t want to drive in a car. I don’t want to shop. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to plan. I don’t want to do bills. I don’t want to anything. Not. One. Thing. I want someone to do it all for me. All of it. Just for a little while.
Then, maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’d want to do for me.
