In or Out

Sometimes I feel like the joy has gone out of my life.

I have resisted growing up ever since jr. high. I suffered for years with an inability to just eat – I controlled my body unmercifully. And I stayed small and child-like, in body and, I fear, in mind. I see myself in the antics of D.’s 6-year-old niece. I am jealous. I am demanding. I am whiny.

And worst of all, I never knew what I wanted to “be” – I never set an academic goal for myself beyond gaining admission to university to satisfy my parents (of course, in my desire for control, I worked until I got into UofT).

At times I believed I wanted to be a housewife – and as I’ve become an adult this is an acknowledged dream of mine – but I can’t discern if this is a real dream or a cover for something else. I never allowed myself to dream about what I could be – I always found reasons why such-and-such a thing was not for me.

I also know I have a deep-rooted attachment to home. I hate having to leave my home in the morning. My favourite days are when I can be at home all day.

Today is one of those beloved days, and when I feel like maybe staying home is a real dream for me.

I put an apron on today and made pizza dough.

I improvised a recipe for bean veggie burgers.

I struggled with and won a battle with a jar of homemade tomato purée.

I sat for an hour with a cup of tea feeling the wind through an open window.

I let the cats out, then in, then out and in again, and fed them a midday snack.

I watched Ricardo make orzo and pork on TV, in French, because I adore him and his recipes. I am envious of his beautiful kitchen and Viking ovens.

My pizza is ready for the oven as soon as my father gets home.

And you know, I don’t feel as blue as I did when I began this post.