I’m caving in, under the weight of carrying on an illicit affair. The constant running around from pillar to post, gambling with time. The sneaking around and juggling multiple things so nobody ever feels like I am missing. The perpetual heaviness of carrying around a load of fatigue from being everywhere all the time. The feeling of stretching myself thin to make up for what is lacking. The sharing of my time, feeling to ripped to shreds, like I can’t bear it anymore. I want to just come out with it. It’s been going on so long, the high is wearing off and I want out. This hanky-pankying is not for me. I was made for the straight and narrow, plain old monogamous relationship, and I can’t manage this emotional multi-tasking anymore.
I feel like I’ve been in the thick of a torrid dalliance with the hectic life. Stealing breathless moments here and there, feeling high on the drug that is new love, creeping behind dark corners to flirt in dangerous new territory. It gave me a heady high. A massive power rush. Like I was in control, and nothing could stop me. But I’m so done now. I want to creep back into the hole that is my normal life. Where I’m committed to my plain-Jane routine. Doing fewer things, looking out of the window admiring the many multi-tasking women out there. But only admiring, not coveting their lives. Not wishing for a taste of it. Not dealing with multiple things, multiple people all at once.
I think I slipped into this hectic life quite unknowingly. The move tumbled right into a series of house work, which extended into my folks visiting for a week, and then back into work in progress around the house, juggling work through it all and trying to stay social even though I was feeling anything but. But after the chaos of the crazy last few weeks, I’m suddenly flirting with stillness again.
You know what’s worse than being on that kind of a roller-coaster ride? Getting on a slow-ish roller-coaster ride. The kind that is not so crazy paced, is less nerve-wrecking, and effectively lulls you into feeling like you’re enjoying yourself, making you forget that all said and done, it is a mad roller-coaster ride all the same. You feel the wind in your hair, the gush of energy that pushes your heart into your mouth and your stomach all the way down. You feel exhilarated and want more. And more. Till you realise the shady business. That roller-coaster ride has been my life since the beginning of July.
I had carpenters teeming around the house until yesterday. If i see another curl of shaved wood, another misplaced nail or a loose slat, I will scream bloody murder. They’re done. They’re gone. I’m trying hard (and kind of failing) to get back into a serious frame of work-mind. It’s doubly hard to do when you’ve been on a break for a month, up to all kinds of shenanigans that is the illicit love affair I just told you about.
I wake up thinking I have my day chalked out, but then something unforeseen pops up. Like the pump broke one day. My shady neighbour picked an all-day-consuming fight the next. Then the carpenters showed up again. I have to manage it all with three cakes to be delivered in a single day. In between all that my beater broke one day. And yesterday I ran out of cooking gas.
Today, the carpenters are gone. I lugged my cylinder down and replaced it with a new one. The heat maxed out and in the evening the clouds gave way to a super heavy downpour. It was like everything bubbled over, and from now on the hope is things will calm the eff down.
At the moment there’s a tantalizing smell of wet earth hanging about. I have some chicken thawing and I’m seeing visions of chucking it into a creamy, tangy curry with capsicum, babycorn and mushrooms. I’m waiting for the husband to get his ass home so I can chill and eat a quiet dinner alone.
I’m listening to this:
I’m ready for my normal monogamous relationship with life. The one where I do one thing at a time. Where time slows down a little like it does for normal people. The one with simple date nights in the kitchen. Where the only action I get is a slot of time that frees up and I can bake instead of working. Where the only place I want to be is home. I want that life.
The one with the really low standards to keep. The easiest expectations to meet. The one without the flourish of new love, without the bells and frills. With the comfort of familiarity, rather than the inaccuracy of fumbling around in new territory. The one with the old sweet nothings whispered in my ear. Even if it just the husband saying “Can we have parathas for dinner?”