This is a thing I wonder: how much of my not being depressed is just the second law of thermodynamics? Because, see, when I’m working on something (the business, school, even cleaning the house or whatever) I feel fine. Well - fine-ish. Acceptable. The rest of the time I seem to alternate between two states: too-much-to-do torpor and oh-my-god-I-can’t-function torpor. Which of course look very similar, not that there’s anyone looking.

I’m tired. And I don’t know what I’m doing. And I should know what I’m doing, because I’m doing it, for better or worse. Parenting, running a business, sleepwalking through school…I should feel competent, but I’m quite sure that there’s something very important that I’ve been overlooking all this time and I just don’t know what it is. Maybe I would if I actually got some sleep every once in a while. Or maybe that’s the problem: I spend far too much time trying to sleep. If I didn’t sleep, think of all the stuff I could get done!

I was thinking about this yesterday, when I had some time to kill before meeting Not So after work and decided to try on shoes at Famous Footwear, which led to the realization that my shoe size is, inescapably, a nine. This wouldn’t ordinarily be significant, except for two things:

  • All the shoes I own were acquired pre-pregancy, and
  • My feet used to be 8-8 1/2.

So I have a closet full of shoes that will never, no matter how much I like them, fit comfortably on my feet. Added to the closet full of clothes that don’t fit for various and sundry reasons, this fills me with a sense of pointlessness.

“Look at this as a unique shoe-buying opportunity!” said Not So.

But, see, shoe-buying implies money-having, and that is not a thing that is. You see. Shoe-buying falls under the same category as hair-cutting, except, of course, that I can’t make my own shoes. I can cut my own hair. I shouldn’t, because apparently my hair-cutting mojo evaporated during my pregnancy along with my waistline, my memory, and my formerly-impressive grammar skills. But I can.

And, see, that’s the crux of the problem. I look schlumpy, I feel schlumpy, and every time it occurs to me that I ought to do something about it I’m faced with the fact that I am no longer a self-sufficient, productive member of society. I don’t bring in an income. I can’t justify things like hairstyling and footwear because any (theoretical) money I spend on myself is money I should be spending on, in order of importance, my kid, my husband, food, our bills, or our business.

Yes, so: sleep. And if I didn’t need it, I could spend my nights as a typist or something and make enough extra money to afford shoes. Shoes, and and a haircut.

And some therapy. But I’d have to work a lot to afford that.

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