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Perfection
Jan. 27th, 2007 12:26 amWith all the little annoyances of day to day life, it’s easy to forget sometimes how happy I really am.
There are things that could be better in my life – I could do without the sudden resurgence of Hubby’s illness, and his frequently recurring temper tantrums – I could do with being able to stop work and write full time or just, you know, whenever I feel like it – I could do without insomnia or losing vast quantities of weight every time I stop paying attention to what I eat – I could do with having forty-three hours in each day – I could do without the extra stress of worrying about the judges who are yet to appear at the Orions – I could do with some more rain to stop my garden looking so crispy – I could do without feeling like the hunchback of Notre Dame whenever I see a photo of myself – I could do with being a fair bit further into paying off the mortgage.
Life isn’t perfect, and I doubt it ever will be, even if all those things are handed to me on a platter.
But the fact remains, I am totally, absurdly, ridiculously happy with my life.
This simple fact occurred to me this evening, lying on the bottom of the pool, staring up through the expanse of water at the blurry stars.
It hasn’t been an especially unusual day apart from being a Friday where I didn’t have to work. The in-laws had been over for a barbecue for Australia Day. I’d spent a few happy hours preparing delectable (and barbecuable) delights to serve up, I’d blackmailed Hubby into vacuuming and then mopped the floor where the tiles had started growing mould, I’d finally sat down when the guests arrived and spent an evening of pleasant conversation on the patio, realised with some regret I’d forgotten to make a pavlova, seen everyone off and finished up the dishes, then gone to have a dip before bed.
And I lay on the bottom of the pool, just short of neutral buoyancy, pinching my nose shut to avoid getting a lungful of the water which has just hit thirty degrees, thinking... does it get any better than this?
I don’t know. But this’ll certainly do until something better comes along.
There are things that could be better in my life – I could do without the sudden resurgence of Hubby’s illness, and his frequently recurring temper tantrums – I could do with being able to stop work and write full time or just, you know, whenever I feel like it – I could do without insomnia or losing vast quantities of weight every time I stop paying attention to what I eat – I could do with having forty-three hours in each day – I could do without the extra stress of worrying about the judges who are yet to appear at the Orions – I could do with some more rain to stop my garden looking so crispy – I could do without feeling like the hunchback of Notre Dame whenever I see a photo of myself – I could do with being a fair bit further into paying off the mortgage.
Life isn’t perfect, and I doubt it ever will be, even if all those things are handed to me on a platter.
But the fact remains, I am totally, absurdly, ridiculously happy with my life.
This simple fact occurred to me this evening, lying on the bottom of the pool, staring up through the expanse of water at the blurry stars.
It hasn’t been an especially unusual day apart from being a Friday where I didn’t have to work. The in-laws had been over for a barbecue for Australia Day. I’d spent a few happy hours preparing delectable (and barbecuable) delights to serve up, I’d blackmailed Hubby into vacuuming and then mopped the floor where the tiles had started growing mould, I’d finally sat down when the guests arrived and spent an evening of pleasant conversation on the patio, realised with some regret I’d forgotten to make a pavlova, seen everyone off and finished up the dishes, then gone to have a dip before bed.
And I lay on the bottom of the pool, just short of neutral buoyancy, pinching my nose shut to avoid getting a lungful of the water which has just hit thirty degrees, thinking... does it get any better than this?
I don’t know. But this’ll certainly do until something better comes along.
