I had intentions to write this last night, but, alas, I got carried away with a bottle of Pinot Noir (that’s right, a whole bottle…minus what I spilled on the carpet) and fell asleep watching Sleepless in Seattle (that’s actually completely true (and sad, now that I think about it)).
(as a completely irrelevant-to-this-post-but-sort-of-relevant-to-the-abovementioned sidebar, I’m clueless as to how Hemingway did it. Drinking and writing don’t play together in my world. They don’t share pencils, trade snack packs, or perform other childhood niceties, either.)
Get on with it, lady!
(That was me assuming your thoughts. You’re welcome.)
When I was in 1st or 2nd grade, I prayed for impaired vision so I could have red glasses like one of the girls in my class.
Blurry vision and headaches be damned, I wanted them…and the glory of individuality that I assumed came with them.
Now that I’m older and more mature (mmm…?), I realize how inane and ridiculous my want was. I also realize this girl with the glasses probably woke up daily wishing the world would materialize in front of her.
This is the first example of “The Grass is Greener” syndrome I can conjure up from my life. I’m sure there were dozens of other noteworthy instances like this one, but in the interest of time and attention spans we’ll just stick it right here (again, you’re welcome).
I’ve been like this a lot of my life (i.e. all of my life). I am fairly convinced that if I had certain things, went certain places, was a certain age, weighed less, dated a certain somebody, tanned more, sang like Adele, could speak 14 different languages, or wore shoes that cost what my left kidney might on the black market (…not that I’ve looked into this), that…surely…I would be the happiest person alive.
I need this. I need to that. I need him.
There has never been a cap to my wanting. #firstworldproblems (I don’t really understand what I just did there but it seems appropriate). I am seldom quietly happy and content with life (regardless of what my FB status says. Yes. That’s right. Sometimes I’m a fabricating, overly-exaggerated L.I.A.R (oh the shame!)).
I wondered to my dear (and very tolerant) friend the other day about the plausibility of this whole The Grass Is Greener concept being some weird evolutionary tick that hasn’t worked itself out yet.
Perhaps it was initially designed as a motivating factor for our lives that would make us strive for our goals or be better people.
And then we never learned how to put a cap on that shit.
Let me provide you with a fun analogy here to kick-start your imaginative imaginations.
Before Mr. Freeze (see above) was debugged, riders of the coaster ended up headless in the parking lot. A little trial and error fixed that problem and visitors can now ride repeatedly without worry of dismemberment.
Right now, our society is in phase one of Mr. Freeze development. Our needs and wants and the things that we will do to get them are landing us in the proverbial parking lot of life. Heads splattered…morally inept and ridiculously insecure.
Yes. That paragraph just happened.
My entire life I have been thoroughly convinced that if I could get to this age (check), have this job (check), wear these shoes (check), get married (…ehhhh), have babies (whoah now!)…that I would have the beautiful cake batter recipe for my happily ever after.
(my happily ever after would be confetti cake batter…mixed with strawberry…in case anyone was wondering)
Recently, though, I’ve had several moments of clarity (following my second glass of wine but prior to scrubbing the maroon stain from the carpet (which, coincidentally, doesn’t look nearly as clean this morning as it did last night)).
I have the life that 13 year-old Amy wanted and I’m not any more happy than I was then. 13 year-old Amy was wrong (about a lot of stuff).
I’m 24 and still looking for the next best thing.
Fundamentally, we’re talking a serious, this-is-going-somewhere-other-than-down-in-flames relationship. I want to get married, I want to have children. I want to build a life with someone.
And some little side of me actually believes that this will be what sends me over the moon.
And then there’s the recently conformed realist in me who believes that…
There is going to be some point in the future where I get home from work and am standing in the middle of my kitchen with a pot of water boiling over and spaghetti sauce splattered everywhere. There will be kids screaming bloody effing murder and a dog running around and my husband is going to inevitably (at that moment) look at me and say something that pisses me off…and I’m going to wonder…
What the F$%! was so wrong with being single, Amy? Huh? You could be drunk at Harpo’s playing trivia and getting hit on by college guys who just wanted to touch you. Was it really that bad?!
It’s time to stop looking over the fence at other people’s grass and start figuring out my own backyard…the one that I’m standing inside of (see what I did there?).
The grass might be greener over yonder…but I bet it’s also twice as hard to maintain. There’s an enjoyable level of simplicity that comes with not having everything that you think you want.
#enjoyingtheride (I still don’t get it)
*Working* on it.