Dear Diary...?

I have always loved diaries.  Well, I've always loved the idea of a diary.  I picture myself sitting down at the end of the day (with a cup of herbal tea), ready to record the innermost thoughts and thoughtful observations that would provide valuable self awareness as I progressed through my life.  Alas, every diary I have attempted to keep has been abandoned within weeks.  I've never even been able to achieve a Bridget Jones-like accounting of weight and alcohol consumed.  It's not that I lack discipline, since I am disciplined in most other areas of my life (some people might replace the word "disciplined" with "rigid", but since those people have never once put anything back where they found it, they aren't exactly in a position to be passing judgment on the only person in this house who can find scissors/socks/homework/cleats on short notice). I could blame it on a lack of time (the excuse I use for just about everything else I don't feel like doing), but that's not really it either.  I think reliving my thoughts and feelings (with beautiful penmanship in a leather-bound book with gold edged pages) is one of those "that's who I WANT to be" ideals that doesn't quite measure up to who I AM.  Not to mention that I'm not a tea-drinker.

I am a list-making linear thinker.  I am orderly and practical, but not particularly introspective.  I was baffled by philosophy courses in college because I never saw the point of just sitting around thinking. My attempts at achieving serenity through meditation were laughable.  The way I understand it, you're supposed to clear your mind and concentrate on a word or phrase, and before you know it, you are on your way to peaceful self awareness.  HAH.   When I gave this a try, within 15 seconds my mind was racing--I should be folding the laundry before everything is a wrinkled mess and I might have to.. gasp...iron. What am I going to make for dinner? What's in those Tupperware containers in the back of the fridge and how long have they been there?  Do people still have Tupperware parties?  Why is there so much cat hair on this floor? How often am I supposed to bring the cats to the vet? How long has that crack in the wall been there?  Is our foundation shifting?  How would we know if it were? Why am I sitting here?  I should at least be on the treadmill...etc.  After five minutes of this, I wandered off to grab the vacuum and do something about all the cat hair.  Pathetic.  

However, I guess it's all a matter of perspective.  My husband maintains that I  "think too much".  Without addressing the irony of that assertion, I think he means that I (like many women) am prone towards looking for the deeper meaning in his words and actions (and then gnawing at it until a fight starts or I get distracted by a looming kid-trastrophe). But that's not really DEEP thinking--it would probably be better described as nit-picking (my experiences picking actual nits can wait until a later post).  As an aside, after 20 plus years of marriage, I think I am finally starting to agree with him that there is no deeper meaning in his thoughts and actions--what you see is what you get.  Men are simple like that.  

So as a non-deep-thinker (invented word), here goes my latest attempt at finding a happy medium between my type A tendencies and my desire to do a little mental uncluttering.   I accept that I will never be that mom who calmly sinks into a Pottery Barn chaise with my steaming cup of tea, reflecting on the highs and lows of the day while my cherubic children occupy themselves making snowflakes out of recycled junk mail envelopes.  And I am not going to find enlightenment by yoga or mediation since those activities cause me to stress out about all the things I'm not accomplishing.  So I'm setting the bar a little lower: sitting down at my computer with a glass of wine and tapping out some random thoughts while my children text and play Xbox until their fingers start showing the early signs of arthritis and I start screaming "has ANYONE done their homework???".

Wish me luck.