Diary, April 12: Over everything

I’m so over everything.

Are you so over everything?

I want to set fire to my entire closet. I hate every single article of clothing I own. All my shoes. My socks. My underwear. Everything. It’s April 11th and still so cold. 

I’m looking frumpy because everything  I own is so tired and nothing has been dry-cleaned because I thought FOR SURE my winter clothes would be in storage by now  (And in five months, pretend that everything was dry-cleaned before I stored them when I dig them out to wear them once it gets cold again. It’s a fun trick I like to play on myself).

I have a huge zit on my chin (I’m 38!) that has been with me for the past week. It’s the size of a small planet; I’m pretty sure it has its own ecosystem. I don’t dare pop it because my aging skin now scars at the slightest insult. So it sits and greets me every morning. Kit is concerned. “Whats Zat?” she says, and touches it every day when I pick her up to hug her. She looks at me with the deep, deep sympathy I deserve for having an oozing clogged pore AND wrinkles at the same time. 

Oh, we also got our taxes done and we owe money TO THE GOVERNMENT. I hate the government! (Not really, but kind of. And especially when we pay over $35K for childcare and only $6K is available for a tax credit. It’s like the government is only run by out-of-touch men who have no idea how much it costs to be a woman who works and dares to breed.)

While I’m bitching, can we talk about socks? (I’m picturing you right now, drinking wine and yelling, “YES DOROTHY! LET’S TALK ABOUT SOCKS! GET IT GIRLFRIEND!).  I’m so tired of socks. I was thinking today about how soon (soon!) my kids will wear sandals and so I won’t have to spend my time matching socks and finding socks and putting socks ON them.  Or holding onto a plethora of single socks on the off-chance I’ll find the other one in the car or the silverware drawer or in the dog’s butt or something. (If I did find a lone sock in my dog’s butt, you can be SURE that I would wash that sucker, dig through my pile of single socks and feel ECSTATIC about finally pairing it.) Socks are, like, 30 percent of my mental load. I spend a lot of my time matching my husband’s socks and muttering to the line, “IF HE ONLY KNEW!” (Note: My husband is amazing and does 70% of the child rearing around these parts and all the cooking so I CANNOT COMPLAIN about helping him with his socks…but I do.)

I just want it to be warm. I want to get my spring clothes out of storage and pretend like they were dry-cleaned 7 months ago. And even if they weren’t dry-cleaned (they weren’t) I’m desperate to put something new on my body.  I want to get some sun on my Casper-esque skin which is practically translucent. And veiny. And maybe slightly hairy. I’m slightly horrified about putting on spring dresses and open-toed shoes with the way my legs and toe-nails currently appear but I’m up for the challenge. Put me in, coach!

This weekend it will finally be nice. I’ll be able to dig in the yard and get outside. I’ll finally take the Christmas tree lights off our front bush. Maybe my zit will be gone. Maybe I’ll get out of this funk and into some happiness. Maybe I’ll shave and paint my toes.

Let’s hope.

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