Do you ever have those moments when you’re talking with somebody and you suddenly think, Well this whole life of mine is the wrong way to go and I am such a Housewife Loser?
No, I don’t either. But occasionally, as I pick strawberries out in the wilds of middle Tennessee with our New York friends who are in the movie business and do things like go to the Cannes Film Festival because they have meetings that they just can’t miss, I think, Well, I wouldn’t mind needing to be someplace because there’s a meeting I just can’t miss.
Maybe the adrenaline is wearing off. The way I see it, the first five years or so of motherhood are a gimme, with nature providing us a camel’s hump of motherly fuel. Irregular sleep, extreme routine–it’s boot camp, except that your drill sergeant is really cute and likes a sippy cup. Anybody can get through those early years. Now is when it gets complicated. Your drill sergeant can talk to you, and sometimes he says things that are so reasoned and NOT goofy that you realize, hmm, he’s outthinking you.
Now that I’m a humpless camel, I sit around and wonder what to do with myself. At Costco last week I saw a huge stack of The Purpose-Driven Life, a poignant monument to seeking meaning in a warehouse full of purposeless crap. I would have bought it, but I couldn’t decide whether to get The Purpose-Driven Life, Songs for a Purpose-Driven Life, or The Purpose-Driven Life Deluxe Journal. I saw so many purpose-driven books that the word purpose started to look like porpoise or papoose. I had to get out of there.
I haven’t quite worked out what porpoise is going to drive me through the next phase of life. But there is a ferocious urge to do something, which is often how I end up doing things I didn’t do on purpose. As my favorite bumper sticker says, “Jesus is coming. Look busy.”
Meanwhile . . .
Evelyn brilliantly figured out that I was going to be doing some knitting during the Gift of Time yesterday. As we all knew would happen, the decayed tutu yarn won the contest for my attention, so here’s the weird thing that I’ve got going:
Scribble lace knitting, following the guidance of Debbie New’s Unexpected Knitting. I’m using size 10 cotton crochet thread because Debbie said to use rilly thin stuff. Those are size 15 circulars. The problem I’m seeing is that this slippy tutu yarn is occasionally slipping out of place. I’m tightening up on the ribbon rows to see if more tension will make a difference.
I’m seeing this as a shawl or wrap, so I can lay about in consumptive glamour like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, writing sonnets and daintily coughing. Now there’s a life. But I may undo it and try again on the HUMONGO SIZE 35 needles I got at Michael’s. If those aren’t big enough, I’m going to modify some paper towel tubes. Or some PVC pipe.
In other news, I’m on the backside of the last sleeve of Woo for my sister Buffy.
A balm, I tell you, an absolute relief to chug away on this. Gives purpose to my life, really.