And I did not do something I had planned to do. And I would guess there were some (not so nice) comments made about that choice; comments that I will never hear. Those comments will possibly be made worse when it gets out that I (gasp!) chose to do something just for me for a few hours of the weekend. But don't worry. I feel horridly guilty about all of it.
It's odd to me that so much of my "youthful idealism" remains intact, while so much of it has been stripped away. (By the reality of the situation? The reality of life? Either way, I guess.)
There are things that used to matter to me; things I used to think mattered, period. But I think they only mattered to me. (Maybe a few others, too.)
I used to have passion and enthusiasm. It used to be exciting. Because I thought it mattered.
Not so much.
The first time I heard the song Viva La Vida, I sobbed. I didn't really understand why at the time. But now I do.
I feel guilty. Guilty for my loss of enthusiasm. Guilty for the things I cannot do. Guilty for the things I chooses to not do. Guilty for the things I choose to do. Guilty for wanting to put my real life (my family, my friends, my health, my well-being) first. Guilty for feeling resentment. Guilty for enjoying 45 stolen minutes just sitting with my husband when I should have been working or cleaning or running or or or or. Just a lot of guilty.
And that doesn't seem right.
But there it is. And here I am.
"One minute I held the key, next the walls were closed on me."
But I'm working on it. (Working through it.)