I took a week off from updating my diary. I haven't felt like writing for some reason. Sometimes I feel like if I don't have some sort of drama going on, something wrong in my life, then there's no inspiration to write. That's just stupid, I know. The purpose of this diary is to document my life, the good and the bad. I am fortunate that there isn't a lot of bad. And what there is, I am eager to write about. But I am also eager to write about the good, and that's what I'm going to try to focus on. I've read other diaries; some have contained comments about other diaries they've read, and how inconceivable it is that some people have such charmed lives that all they have to write about are what they bought when they went shopping, how cute their kids are, and what they're making for dinner for their perfect families in their perfect houses.
When I read these kinds of comments, I wonder if they're talking about me. I know they're not -- I don't have that huge of a readership -- but still. They could be talking about me.
And why should I care if they are? Well, I don't really. Not much. But sometimes I internalize these kinds of things and it makes me wonder what right I have to keep a diary, if most of it sounds like a great big brag-fest.
The truth is, aside from the events of the past few weeks with K, we (me and my family) have it good. There isn't a lot of friction to speak of. No real drama. No skeletons bursting from the closet threatening to expose me and ruin my way of life. If there were, maybe I'd be more interesting. I wonder.
So you'll have to excuse my happiness, and bear with me as I go on at length about my adorable (if not perfectly behaved) 2 year old. I will continue to write about my love affair with my husband. And yes, the condition and cleanliness of my house will probably pop up from time to time.
But everybody knows no one's life is perfect. My car breaks down. I have a personal relationship with the towing company. They know me at the car rental agency. My daughter (here I go again) deliberately splashes me in the bathtub when she's mad at me (which is often). My husband sometimes takes me for granted (whose doesn't?). And I do have skeletons, but I am good at not worrying about them.
I have no good reason for writing all this. Maybe I just wanted to exhibit some margin of angst, for those who are keeping track.
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