One of the few things that actually makes me relax & enjoy, not to mention have cute feet. And yes, those are my jammies.
I am coming clean.
I am not content.
This realization plagues me and torments me and makes me feel guilty, even more so at times than the lack of contentedness.
Recently (as you may have read in my posts about losing my dear Unc, a sweet man), I listened to the eulogy of a man I respected like a father. It seemed to be speaking to me and at me all at once, it was the voice of my cousin’s husband speaking so highly of my Uncle, who quite frankly was always pretty content. “If you want to honor his memory, be content. Be happy. Love the life that you have.”
I had never considered contentedness a trait of his when he was alive, only to realize that he was always happy and joking and truly loved just having his family around his home and our hometown visits to the Pennsylvania mountains.
Being content wasn’t a word I’d necessarily have chosen. But he was. And I’m not. And the eulogy asked me to live like him, and be content. And I’m not.
I have always been the type of person that has piled my plate higher than my head, ready to topple over as I knock out tasks one-two-three-style while in high heels and singing a lullaby to my kids.
Taking my little girl to have a little spa night tonight (see resulting cute pink toes, above) was a precious experience, and made me content for a little while. No sooner had I tipped the sweet lady at the salon I was aflutter with worry about dinner, laundry, my presentation tomorrow, blog post tonight, phone calls to friends not returned, arguments with my husband. . .
And it goes on and on like this. I need another challenge. I need to run more miles this week. I need to take my kids somewhere new. We need new draperies, these old ones bother me (ok this is a sickness, my mom makes them okay?!), I need to repaint this room or decorate that one, I have got to read these new books piled on my bedside table.
My little girl's newly-pedicured toes. This makes us happy, content. For now.
While we sat in the chairs having our feet rubbed with hot oil today in a moment of complete, unparalleled luxury and did nothing but smile at each other after a long day apart we were both ridiculously happy. Not only with being together speaking few words shared but the conscious act of doing something for ourselves—a guilty pleasure not shared often enough—is a time for “just the girls” to relax and get away from the loud realities of a family of five.
But, then it’s over.
My Uncle had it down. He knew how to do it. Maybe someday, I will too. In the meantime, I’ll churn into the next act of consciousness hoping for the ultimate happiness high.
