Mismatch
My shoes don’t match: I’m wearing one navy blue pump; one black pump. They are the same style shoe. I noticed the problem in the bright sunlight when I wobbled out of the car this morning to drop off Emily’s clothes to Mom.
Not even in the house two minutes when she noticed the shoe situation—“Your shoes don’t match!” I petted the Peke who was dancing at my feet for some attention. “Yeah, and I’m not going home.” She put her head on the counter and laughed. “I wonder why I don’t get dates—look at me.” “You’ve done it before.” “Yeah, the day I delivered a big presentation at (insert name of large healthcare firm here). The nurses didn’t notice.” “They noticed; they were being kind.”
Today I have to meet with my recruiter and pick up my two paychecks (I haven’t been paid at all this year). We have a lunch meeting to discuss things, and he’s so polished I know he’ll notice the shoe situation. I keep thinking that if I just force myself to do the necessities that I will just feel better. It hasn’t happened yet, and it won’t.
I don’t feel well. I’m bone tired, as if anything but breathing requires too much effort. I slept soundly last night—in bed early again. I told my daughter that I needed to rest, and she said she could tell. I’m demanding more from my body than it can give, and I naively believe I’ll win. I’m working myself into a complete melt down, but realistically, I have no sick time in the bank, or wait, I think I’ve earned four hours thus far. If I don’t work, no money comes in. Emily’s school registration fees are due, and there are wolves to keep from the door. I still need to get Em ready for school, so it’s not like I have time to rest. The laundry doesn’t stop just because I don’t feel well enough to do it. That’s not reality.
That’s why I get so upset when people say they understand my situation. Unless you’re a single parent living alone with your children, then no, you don’t really get the situation. I’m not saying it because I want sympathy, pity, or help. I’m just saying that it’s not a world that you have any right to say you understand because you read something about it in Oprah's magazine. Single parents who live with their relatives are also in a different situation—of course the other person that they live with will pick up slack when they’re sick. When you do it all, there is no one there to pick up the pieces for you when they drop. That’s the reality of it. That’s why my life is so imperfect. That’s why I get frustrated when people tell me to rest and to take care of myself. I’m trying to get as much done as I can, and taking a break doesn’t rank that highly on the To-Do list: a mismatch of time, obligations, and priorities.