when i get near the end of the day - or my blood sugar ebbs - i write this piffle - at times it's more stimulating than…real work.
Love,
Aunt crabby
It's no secret I'm the eldest of three girls. We all knew for a fact each was favored over the other, one was smarter and prettier than the next and not one among us liked our childhoods and I, for one, haven't liked most of the ensuing years. And that is why I became a social worker.
I was born long after Sylvia Plath and long before the Feminine Mystique was so tenuously written and then practically recanted by Mrs. Friedan. Logic has no place in my life, having been born dead center of "a" year. Imagine. Center! So, I've followed suit, often being on a fence, riding the waves, thinking things over and dodging certainty. It's more than death and taxes, certainty, that is. It's motherhood, childbirth, custody battles and zillions of experience that whir about my pretty brain as though they were invited when they very well were not.
Ah, who to blame, who to blame. Yes. That's a statement not a question. And there is no answer. There is no one to blame. Stuff happens and I've moved along with time doing my best to look and act nonplussed but – oh those nighttimes when I've laced into carbs to assuage frustration and despair only to discover that carbs, my dear sweet pal Sugar, exacerbates any symptom I have, might have, hope to have or have had and gotten rid of by not binging on carbs. Life is hard. Not only is life hard, but writing an essay that's factual, interesting and devoid of profanity without benefit of a carb-fix is damn hard.
