Turns Out School's Not Out Forever

I remember feeling the pressure of having to know exactly what I wanted to do with my life by the time I was a senior in high school. I look back and think how in the world could I have possibly known what career to choose at 17? I was a mere bushy-browed, awkward teen still trying to figure out how to make boys like me. How was I supposed to know what I wanted to do for the next 50 years of my life?

I am reminded of the Twisted Sister video “I Wanna Rock” when the teacher, veins bubbling from his neck, screams, “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE?!” As brilliantly cheesy as that moment is, it rings true. How is anyone at 18 supposed to know what they want to do with the rest of their life?

I certainly don’t blame my parents for pressuring me for that’s just the way it was. And so I chose.

I remember hearing - you’ll never end up working in the field you majored in - quite frequently as I neared graduation. Not exactly encouraging words as I ventured out into the big, bad, real world.

The thing is, they were right. I didn’t end up doing what I thought I would be doing mainly because I had no idea what I wanted to do! After four years of core classes, major requirements and living it up, all I was left with was the feeling that I wasn’t ready to make a lifelong commitment to a career. Don’t get me wrong, I tried. I dabbled in this and that, but after 16 years of this and that I found myself unhappy and incomplete.

Last week I registered for classes for the first time since flannel was considered an acceptable form of evening wear; confident that after 20 plus years of trying to figure it all out, I finally know what I want to be when I grow up.

Sure I have those 'if I knew then what I know now' moments; but isn't the journey just as sweet as the destination? My journey has taken a bit longer than I had anticipated...but there is no bitter in this sweet.

Yogasm

I have been practicing yoga more intensely for the last few months. I have never gotten more high off walking into an exceedingly hot room and putting myself into seemingly unnatural positions day in and day out. The funny thing is what seems unnatural at first suddenly starts to feel more and more normal. Every class is a journey through challenging your mind and body to do things you have already told it it couldn’t do. I fully commit myself every morning to give a little more than the day before. And regardless of the end result, I always walk away from class more confident than when I walked in.

Carrying that positive yoga attitude with me throughout my day has been essential in surviving the plight of housewifedom. Having a breakthrough in class translates into having breakthroughs throughout my day; albeit it small or momentous, these moments have been a chance for me to grow.

Case in point, I have been volunteering rehabbing sea and land turtles for the last few years. I get more out of cleaning up turtle poop or getting bitch-slapped by a flipper than I ever did sitting behind a desk. This past weekend I was taught how to tube feed a sea turtle. This means trust and confidence was placed upon me to learn how to delicately work a tube down an endangered sea turtle’s esophagus injecting nutrients into its body in order for it to have a chance at survival. I have witnessed this process many, many times and have been comfortable being a spectator. Here was my chance to stop sitting on the sidelines and be an active participant in my own journey.

The trust placed upon me to nourish this beautiful creature is directly related to the confidence I have gained through my yoga practice; it’s because of this that I am pursuing my passion with renewed vigor and commitment and doing things I never thought I’d be able to do.

The fear of falling on my face is no longer an option. If I fall out of a pose in class I take a deep breath and start over. If the tube doesn’t go down the turtle’s throat the first time, I take a deep breath and start all over.

It’s not a race; it’s a journey. The important thing is that you’re headed in the right direction.

Leftovers Anyone?

Leftovers have always been very functional in my house. While working it meant that I didn’t have to go out on my lunch hour. Many times I had enough leftovers to last me a couple of work days. (I’m Puerto Rican - food is love. Lots of food = lots of love.) Now that I am not working it means I have the opportunity to spread the love to someone other than myself.

Meals with friends are difficult during a work week. My husband is not a nine to fiver and dinners often occur later into the evening; not conducive to my friends with school-aged children. So dinner get-togethers are often relegated to Friday or Saturday evenings; not nearly enough face time for a social butterfly such as myself.

Enter the institution of the Leftover Lunch Club - meeting sometime between breakfast and lunch - serving a plethora of day old (sometimes older) fare - Italian, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Asian, and undetermined. Everybody, well me, knows your name, and I’m always glad you came.

That’s the beauty of being a housewife; I can start my own clubs - make my own rules - set the stage for my life that feeds every part of me - my head, my heart, my soul and yes, even my stomach.

Major Blockage

Over a week has lapsed since I last blogged, and I’ll tell you why - writer’s block caused by acute PMS.

PMS is this powerful animal that can render a woman hysterical, maniacal, depressed and everywhere in between. So how does this newly crowned housewife handle PMS? By being hysterical, maniacal, depressed and everywhere in between. With no job to distract and soften the monthly blow, I went out of my mind instead of staying in it. I allowed it to be counter-productive feeding into the “She Must Be PMSing” stereotype. I was a walking, talking soap opera. I might has well have been in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers inhaling Bon Bons by the carton.

I started writing this blog to try and dispel the housewife stereotype and here I was playing right into it. That leads me to this question -

Who am I trying to dispel this stereotype to? You or me?

I Ain't Missing You At All

Every since I was a little kid I have always dreaded Sunday. Sunday was the dark cloud of my week reminding me that my mundane, meaningless life cycle was about to pass go once again. Even The Smiths understood my pain with the poignant lyrics, “Everyday is like Sunday. Everyday is silent and gray.”

I would leave work elated on Friday afternoons knowing that for 60 hours or so there were no phones to pick up, emails to answer or butts to kiss; but that powerful feeling took a nosedive as soon as late afternoon Sunday rolled around. The knowledge that I had to once again work hard for my money flashed like a warning beacon bringing my 60 hour weekly vacation to a grinding halt.

Now I am finding that there is no one day of the week I dread because I know the following day I will be doing something I want to do, not something somebody wants me to. I am able to go to my yoga classes and not abbreviate final relaxation in order to get to work on time. In fact, I am getting to know my fellow yogis because there’s no need to rush home. I volunteer rehabbing sea turtles and am able to do that more often and consistently because I can and want to. I am a stay-at-home pet mom able to give extra love and receive more snuggles and wet kisses because life is affording me the ability to do so. I even clean the house with more gusto for crying out loud! There is no more meaningless life cycle anymore, rather a constant flow of happy, meaningful moments.

It’s Saturday afternoon as I write this and I am thinking - bring it on, Sunday! I can’t wait for you, Sunday! If only everyday could be like Sunday!

Sunday is the new Friday.

About Face

One of my fears about not working was that I would be completely unproductive spending most of my time checking Facebook or catching up on entertainment headlines, my achilles heel. Turns out I guess I was just bored because now the thought of going on Facebook sends little z’s sailing through my mind like a neverending freight train. It just seems like such a chore now; something I have to do rather than want to do.

Instead of starting the day checking the monkey that was once so proudly perched on my back, I am cuddling my babies a little more. Instead of checking to see if anyone’s life has drastically changed in the last hour since I last checked to see if anyone’s life has drastically changed in the last hour, I am changing my own life sweating through a hot yoga class. I am cleaning out decades worth of mementos and mement-no’s instead of finding out who in high school has gotten fat, gone bald or is still the biggest bitch on the planet.

The funny thing is, I spent more time on that site when I was working than when I stopped. That is probably in part due to the advent of iPhones and the like; but now with no firewalls or bored IT guys staring over everyone’s shoulder I am free to like, dislike, comment and poke all I want. So why is there no poking going on?

It sort of reminds me of when I was a kid and would go to a friend’s house after school. Their cupboards were filled with every imaginable, chocolatey, sweet, salty, greasy afternoon snack known to child. It was a treasure trove of taboo, and I wanted a piece of it; I wanted lots of pieces. And I never understood how my friends could not consume every ounce of every piece of forbidden goodies. The only thing to snack on at my house was cheese and crackers - not exactly my ticket to cool. To not want to obliterate a box of Oreos with a chocolate milk chaser was a concept foreign to me. It didn’t matter which friend you would ask, however; they would all basically say the same thing - it’s always around so I guess don’t want it all the time.

Maybe it’s the same with Facebook. It’s at my fingertips every second of everyday with no one pointing their finger telling me I am not utilizing company time wisely. It’s just not sexy and exciting anymore. It’s lost its appeal.

If only Oreos and chocolate milk would lose their appeal....

Part-Timer

If my husband is home with me every other week because of his work schedule does that make me a part-time housewife? Does that make him a part-time househusband?

You would think with a part-timer like my husband we would get double the amount accomplished in any given day on his weeks off. No such luck. But is that a bad thing?

Part of the reason I am not working is so that my husband and I can spend those weeks together traveling, doing home projects - basically doing as little or as much as we want. Not such a bad thing, right? So then why the guilt of not getting enough done? I swear the man turned his head for two seconds and I immediately reached for the vacuum.

This is an adventure, remember? I keep having to remind myself of that. 

So if you don’t hear from me too much every other week it’s merely because I am off (hopefully) on some great adventure.