I hate this rug. I hate it.
Rationally, I know that a big part of why I feel repulsed by it right now is that I fall out of love with virtually all of my bigger, longer-term projects. I like RESULTS, and that’s not really compatible with braiding and sewing a rug together out of 2″ wide scraps of fabric.
But it’s more than that.
Projects that take “too long” for me underline that I am not in control of my life. I start to obsess about all the other things I’m trying to do that are taking too long– like how we aren’t making much progress on paying off our student loans, or how we aren’t mortgage-ready so we can’t build our house, or how I had really planned to have a new baby by now, or how I haven’t yet found the right midwifery apprenticeship, or how, no matter how much time and patience I put into my parenting, my children are still developmentally incapable of empathy or foresight.
I feel like I’m running up a loose sand dune– grueling work, not much progress to show for it.
My rational mind, of course, thinks this is all nonsense. “So you haven’t achieved every last one of your major life goals yet– you’re 27 freaking years old! Why worry about things you can’t control? Get over it, emo-kid. Some people in this world have real problems. You have a great life and are just pissy because you couldn’t custom-order it exactly the way you’d design.”
And that makes it worse, because then I feel guilty for feeling depressed, and then we arrive at what Allie Brosh describes WAAAY better than I ever could. Except that I can additionally pity myself because I have never broken through the barrier to the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-I-feel-nothing stage, and that kind of sounds like it might be nice.
Last night, while we were lying in bed and ostensibly trying to sleep, I was overcome by my freak-out and confessed tearfully to Robert– “I hate that rug.”
And he said, quite reasonably (and therefore EXTREMELY IRRITATINGLY): “Why? It looks great!”
And he’s right. But I’m right, too.
New to the rug this week are one of Robert’s old scouting shirts, more boxers, and scraps of some maternity pajama pants I wore when I was pregnant with Númenor.