Gwyneth Paltrow would not be here.
And by here, I mean the space between my rear tire and the curb.
For the past few months, my life has increasingly picked up speed and load until it has come to resemble a greasy, dirty freight train hurtling out of control from one hairpin turn to the next. My house increasingly feels as though it is expressing its candidacy for A&E’s “Hoarders” and the cockroaches, scorpions, snakes and spiders that have been in a deep winter’s sleep are crawling out of the woodwork. All day long I navigate through the realm of consumers that range from inconvenienced to irate and I race home to a blinding rush of rehearsals and practice and dog duty. The emails that were once holding steady at 11,000 have now crept past 20,000 and the little jabs at my dismal inter-personal communications are now risking the jabber more than a cutting response.
Underneath it all – the part that everyone forgets and does not see – is the gauntlet of milestones that starts with his death and carries me through birthdays, holidays and Hallmarked celebrations of love.Subtle irritations that stoke the fire of frustration.
The reason that everyone forgets is because we make it possible for them to do so.
We’re supposed to make it look effortless and that we have the strength of an army, the flexibility of a 12-year-old gymnast, the financial wizardry of Warren Buffet, domestic goddess-ness, the patience of Mother Theresa, Scarlett Johannson’s breasts, Jennifer Aniston’s abs and Gisele Bundchen’s legs. And in anatomical irony, we’re supposed to navigate life with the perfection and precision of a V formation.
What we really have is damn good makeup and Spanx.
In the three-and-a-half hours since my alarm went off this morning, I managed to hide the aforementioned mess under a well coiffed and carefully applied mask of calm and control only to discover that my daughter went to bed looking like an angel but woke up with eyes swollen shut and a head that even Violet Beauregard would find alarming. Urgent Care cannot explain it away and so here we are in the school drop off lane.
Correction. We are not in the drop off lane. I am.
Some of me is beside the curb. Some of me is on the curb. My left heel is in two parts. My skirt is around my waist. And an SUV filled with prepubescent boys has a front seat at the show.
“MOM! Are you okay?!?!”
“Give me a minute.”
To dust off and cover up my perfect v formation.