Wednesday, February 12, 2014

The Price of Contentment

I have dreamed at least a dozen dreams since the newest year began.

I have made plans and lists and schedules, ready to try new things, learn new things, start a new path.

I do this every year, every month, every week almost. I come home from work to declare to my mom or a sister or Tom exactly what it is I am going to do next.

I plan trips, parties, dates, projects, business ventures.

And I almost never do any of them.

But I no longer care.

I am no longer embarrassed by my flightiness, by my excitement, by my temporary obsession that just leads to a search history and entertainment for my commute.

I am not a perfectionist. I am almost always happy with good enough. And I mean it-- I'm happy. My hair and house are always in a mild state of dishevel. I have never owned a pair of jeans that fit. My car is full of coffee cups and discarded toys. I don't know how to use my camera. I have at least six half finished projects patiently waiting for me to make them whole.

I have no anxiety driving me. I don't need to be much of anything to be content. My contentment has led to mediocrity. I live a conventional life.

My best friend Joanna lives in New York. Everyone is a slash. She works with clowns, composers, aerialists, and novelists, who all make their money in a perfect little restaurant void of pretense. Everyone is busy and endlessly fasicanting. She says no one has time for dinner parties.
I really like dinner parties.

Like my father, I enjoy the road of least resistance, but like his father and my mother too, I am a dreamer. A dreamer without drive.

Maybe I am a perfectionist after all. Maybe my version of perfect simply doesn't involve details.

My schemes can keep me company and then move on, and I'll welcome the next with open arms. 


  1. Preach it, sister! I like dinner parties and not givin' two toots, too!! ;)

  2. Sounds like me too! Give me disheveled happiness and fancy free daydreams any day!