The Glamourous Life
I am a historic failure at journaling. I always wrote when life was bad and hardly ever when life was good. My journals have huge gaps in them when life was rolling merrily along with no drama or dilemmas. I’m talking years where I just forgot to write. You know, because life was normal. Came home, made dinner, read until midnight. Normal life. I go back and read my journals from middle and high school and think “My god, did I ever have a good time? Or is it all about the pain and suffering and drama? Where was the good in my life?!?”
Sometimes I think I’m just the kind of person who has to talk the bad stuff out. My hubs would probably agree with this. I have noticed recently that mostly when I talk things out with him I’m complaining about something. Or not even complaining, just expressing something I’m not happy with. Once I express it out loud, then I can deal with figuring out what to do about it. But until I say it out loud it just festers in my brain… The good stuff doesn’t require any contemplative problem solving, maybe that’s why it’s so sparse, I didn’t need to say it to figure out what to do – because it was good, nice, simple. There was no choice around it – just happiness, joy, contentment.
Anyway-despite this lack of journalistic excellence (Dad – that was for you), apparently I must look like the kind of person who journals with much more enthusiasm because I have received tons of journals as gifts. I have received journals for Christmas, birthdays and graduations. I have probably received 5-10 journals since high school. If you are the giver of any of these journals, rest assured, your gift was appreciated. Every time I received one I’d think “Journaling, I should totally do more of that, this will be awesome!”
Then, it would go the same old route. “I’ll use the new one when I’m done with this one, that’ll be soon now that I’m dedicated.” I’d think. And then the current volume would start to collect dust, get piled under stuff and I’d forget. Again.
Maybe this is because my friends think my life is more interesting than I do? Maybe my life IS more interesting than I think it is. Maybe I should write more and see.
Or maybe, I’ll just find that sometimes the mundane is nice. Sometimes it’s nice to acknowledge that nothing dramatic happened. That there was a normal day in my life with no catastrophes, or life changing dilemmas. Or even that something good happened. Maybe then, when I look back at my journals I won’t think “What I whiny b!tch I was!” But “What an amazing life I’ve had.”
Wherever The Four Winds Blow 