Irony

I’m going to take some time off. Men do it all the time, so why can’t I?

Maybe I need to rephrase that. Maybe I just don’t have a man’s capacity to switch off and walk away. As a woman I am on full throttle all the time. Now and again I’m stationary, like a majestic swan, floating calmly over the smooth lake. Underneath the calm cover of the water’s reflection is a turmoil of feathers desperately fighting off the cold onslaught of the undercurrent. My mind racing just like the swan’s legs as they thrash about frantically to keep it balanced and upright.

I may seem to be asleep but after wearing a fitbit, which I now do not do due to the scary results, I realise that I don’t settle. I don’t get enough REM nor deep sleep. I’m awake for 50% of the time and apparently, it’s not normal to only sleep for 4 hours.

This week has been a rollercoaster and we are only in the second week of the year. I want time off.

“But you had Christmas.”

You reckon? Ok hands up all the women that were relieved when everyone went back to work/school. Hands up every man that was bored stupid and clung to the thought of getting out of the house without the other half or kids.

Time off. Real time off, mind body and soul. Dejunk, turn off the windmill, throw in the towel.

That’s enough flouncy stuff, I think you get the picture. I’m fed up, screwed up and beaten up.

Fed up of seeing the kitchen sink, screwed up with all the chores that are piling up and I’ve been beaten up by nurses and procedures and bureaucrats. I want to wake up one morning and say, “Fuck it, this is my day. I’m not working, not planning the next painting, the next project, the next blog. I’m not going to worry about what to have for dinner, the washing that needs doing or the next hospital appointment. Not having to walk dogs, feed dragons, water snakes, empty bins, wash up nor clean the toilet. My day.

I have a diary, my daily diary. I like to write down what I’ve done, what I want to do and how I felt. It is supposed to clear my head before I go to sleep, obviously it’s not working, but I live in Hope. I don’t actually, Hope is a beautiful village in Derbyshire, it’s one of my favourite places to visit.

Being Sunday I looked back on what was feeling like a shitty week. I couldn’t have been wrongerer. (I couldn’t put more wrong, it didn’t seem right, which means I am now considering writing a new dictionary with all the words that should be proper and aren’t because some big wig school teacher in the seventeenth century got arsey about his pupils use of language)

I’ve had a good week work wise. No major triumphs but no big catastrophises either.

I’ve made cakes and cheesecakes and braised a shoulder of mutton to perfection. You may laugh, but I’m proud of my baking. One bad cake can push me into a cataclysm of kitchen meltdown. Like the ice age taking over the Earth, the cake drought after a disaster can take a lot of getting over as I repair my own reputation with myself.

I’ve finished a painting that I’m proud of. I stepped back and laughed when I saw the results of my paint stokes. I think the results of my labour are awkward and bizarre, but comical enough to get away with. I’m not an artist just someone who likes to paint. And some people actually like my efforts.

I’ve finished the front section of my pink fluffy jumper. I have promised myself I’d make a pink fluffy jumper for years, but just like my paintings, it’s just for fun. I have two jumpers I’ve made, neither of which I wear. This one might actually make the grade. “She laughs hysterically at the thought.”

So although the week has been full of wins and no losses why do I feel as though I am tied down and whipped? Could it be that I have too much up on my plate, that I have left everything hanging around and that I can’t catch up with myself. Could it be that I can’t see the wood through the trees of things, places and jobs that are piling up in front of me? Or could it be that I am just being bloody ridiculous.

I’ll give you two guesses what Mark thinks.

I plan, I’m a planner, I don’t like surprises, so last week I did the, “Mark, take note of these dates.” An hour and a half later I was satisfied that we were both working from the same page. That’s the one on the screen that said ‘Calendar’. But of all the things to miss, Mark missed our anniversary. I wasn’t too happy as we sat in the café.

So today I’m taking a day off. I’m not sulking. Anyone could get the day they first met the love of their life wrong. Anyone could forget to put in their diary, book a day off and look forward to a day with their significant other half. Today I’m taking a day off because I want to.

It’s 11:30 on Sunday morning. Mark is making me coffee and I’m sitting in bed writing this blog about being overwhelmed and wanting time off whilst thinking of all the things I need to do. Mark has walked the dog, I have no appointments today, no burning issues and nothing to truly worry about. Nothing that is accept that the fact that I want to take a day off. I’m going to plan a day to myself. Hang on a minute the penny has just dropped!

Bloody irony!!!!

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