Good? Enough?
May 9, 2007 at 10:27 So out of the blue someone asks “How much time did you spend on the computer today?”
And I reply, “I don’t know.”
End of conversation.
But the real question hangs in the air—“What did you do all day?”
And a stony-faced nun rises from my childhood memory and raps me on the knuckles with her great Measuring Stick of Worth, seeking to awaken my Shame. Was I "productive"?
Ever notice that no one asks people with paychecks what they do all day or whether they accomplished anything sitting at a desk or in a meeting. No one is logging the time they spend on the computer, how many minutes were spent pouring coffee and chatting with office mates, talking on the phone, or composing memos and e-mails and Very Important Correspondence.
No one questions the value of the people in offices. Of course what they do matters or they wouldn’t be paid for it, right?
But I’m a woman without a paycheck and with school age children, so my life is up for grabs and open for judgment. Everyone feels they’re entitled to a big piece of it since apparently I’m not using it—or at least not using it properly (meaning not using it for their benefit). Since enquiring minds want to know, here’s what Tuesday looked like:
I got up at 6:30 a.m. and fed the cat and threw in a load of laundry and fixed breakfast for myself and the children and took my heart meds.
I rustled up lunch money for the oldest, packed snacks, reminded the youngest about an afterschool activity, wrote two notes of appreciation to their teachers on handmade cards, sent the kids upstairs to brush their teeth, ignored the oldest one’s messy hair, declined to argue about the necessity of wearing a jacket, and walked them to the bus stop.
Then I walked for exercise for an hour, past people on bikes and mothers pushing strollers and men and women waiting for the bus and cars pulling out of driveways and whizzing past me on their way to Something More Important (than walking).
When I came home I peeled off my sweatshirt, made a cup of tea, and checked e-mail and read blogs and left comments. I listened to a podcast on the life of a monk, and because I felt stiff after my walk, I practiced yoga for a while. I prayed for friends in tough spots.
I pulled a Bible off the shelf, read the readings that had been assigned last Sunday, and then read the sermon Kempton sent me because I’d missed church. Thought about what he’d written and what I read and sent him an e-mail in response. I suppose I could have emptied the dishwasher and cleared the breakfast dishes instead. That would have been meaningful.
My heart was out rhythm despite my meds and so I split a heart pill into four pieces and took a quarter more. I lay down, and I fell asleep and slept for I don’t know how long. I wasn’t wearing my watch yesterday, and since my life has no purpose, I don’t log my time on the computer nor my time on the sofa. I’m lazy and worthless that way. Really, I should put myself on a strict schedule and only allow myself a nap if the doctor orders it. Never mind the side effects of medication and the crappy heart, I should just PUSH myself to do more, be more.
I woke up hungry and made a grilled cheese sandwich with pepperjack. The editor from Expatica suggested I write something about cars or driving for him this week, and I dutifully put together a tongue-in-cheek 700-word piece on driving in Belgium. If I had a work permit or my old job back, this article would have earned me about $250. But I don’t have a job. I work for free so people won’t forget what I’m capable of. The bad news is that people forget anyway or don't care in the first place. Anyone can write, right? I sent the piece off and it will be the lead feature on the home page on Thursday or Friday of this week.
In the afternoon I put away all the stamping and art supplies I’d used to make cards over the weekend. I pulled out the kids’ photo albums and looked for duplicate photos to put in them. I played with the cat. I read articles from CNN’s U.S. and European sites. I combed real estate listings in Virginia. I checked some more blogs. I set up an appointment for an eye exam in the States. Maybe I should have folded underwear and towels instead and lined the shoes up in neat rows in the foyer--but I didn't. I'm always failing to be all that I could be. I'm sure that's the fault of my kindergarten teacher. She set me on the wrong path.
I answered two e-mails from school. I read others and left them for later. Does this make me a procrastinator?
I thought about going to the bakery to buy bread, but I didn’t want to have to walk there in the rain. I don’t know why I don’t like getting out and walking in the rain. Must be because I’m lazy and don't care if my kids can't have toast after school.
I drank another cup of tea. I asked my oldest, now home from school, about his day. I didn't ask him how many minutes he logged on his Game Boy. I did congratulate him on getting a perfect score on his science project.
I made meatloaf and carrots and corn for dinner. I skimmed through the days catalogs. I wrote a letter to Sherry. After dinner, I looked at old photos with my daughter. I remembered when I was thin and she was little. That seems so long ago. Time goes fast when you're just a fat housewife. Every day is more of the same.
I got back online. I cleaned up the Favorites menu. I followed a link to a jewelry design page and looked at bracelets for a while. You know all housewives do is shop. We stay busy looking for ways to spend our husbands' money! I didn't order anything. What's wrong with me? I'm a failure in every respect.
I cleared a lot of junk off my desk and took a hot shower with the question “How much time did you spend on the computer today?” twisting in my chest until my heart ached.
I crawled into bed and beat myself with the unforgiving Measuring Stick of Self-Worth that was handed out with that question and all it implies. I tried to salvage the idea that it's not a crime that I don't have a passion for housework or women's clubs.
Surrounded by darkness, the questions whisper and disintegrate:
Do you think I am
Good enough for you?
Do you think I'm
Good enough?
For you?
Good?
Enough?
May 9, 2007
Reader Comments (26)
You are an incredibly gifted writer, V, regardless of whether you receive a paycheck.
That's a bummer about the work permit. Keep writing, though, because one day you will get paid for it again. (I don't actually see why they couldn't pay you piecemeal, or under the counter... I used to get paid for writing for a scrappy little magazine in Madrid... although, in those days, there was a lot of money being doled out in plain brown envelopes under the table, LOL.)
I'm proud to report that I am an over-achieving failure and have the wrappers (and belly) to prove it.
Honestly, there was a time (too long ago) when I used to go to a gym. Every day at some point my husband wouold ask if I had gone that day. It made me crazy and for a while I started answering with "Nope, I've been in bed all day with the Ruffles and dip." or something similar. He thought I was being funny & didn't caatch my drift so finally I explained how that made me feel and that I would no longer discuss my gym time with him.
Thanks for expressing how you felt so clearly. So many of us can relate. I'll bet this post will be like a Dear Abby letter and find its way to some appropriate inboxes.
I'm thankful that you take the time to share your gift with us... we computer people. And that bit about listening to the podcast about the monk's life... it's too bad I didn't tidy up my closet that day as I could have knocked at least thirty minutes off your agenda ;-)