Same job, different uniform.

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Little Revelations.

Jonny and I went to see a terrific little film. It had one teensy weensy part, a terrible little moment, that I couldn't get off my mind.

When I got home, I retired to the basement, took the towels out of the dryer, threw in a load of underwear and, Red Hots in hand, sat on the couch to find something that would help me forget that tiny little moment.

I caught the end of Scrubs and switched to Sex and the City. I've watched some re-runs on TBS, and, overall, enjoyed them. It's not great television, but it's engaging. And I liked the way they ended the show.

The women are attractive, and they're witty and they live in the city of my youthful dreams. They drink martinis and their lives are dramatic and beautiful and full of just the right amounts of heartbreak and love-making.

It's appealing. It has always appealed to me.

But not anymore. Not really. Not because I don't like martinis or stilettos or even New York. It's because I see that I was saved from realizing those ambitions.

I lived in D.C. and I loved the energy there. I craved the make-believe friendships that included nights on the town, unconditional devotion (the kind that thinks friendship means tolerance, never guidance), swooning lovers breaking their heart over me, a high-powered career, and generally lots of attention.

There was very little of that. It turned out that my big-city job paid well, but my own inclinations were for a cozy apartment, which meant a lot of hard work and weekends at home; driving around the city, navigating the screaming one-way roads; buying a reliable car; trying to connect with my roommates. And that city was fully of gorgeous, talented people with triple the amount of ambition. I was a straw of hay in a haystack.

Brooding lovers? I got a stalker.

Supportive friends? My roommates thought I was weird, and eventually we fought.

Nights on the town were expensive, and anyway, you had to take the metro, you had to know where you going, and you had to have people to go with you. Most of the people I cared about were married, had children, or were content to cook and eat at home. And I lived in a rocking part of Northern Virginia, and it kind of takes the punch out of it when you can walk to the restaurant.

And it turns out those were the good days.

Moving back to Boise was disastrous to my love life, and my spiritual life suffered after a series of deep personal losses. (Julie was right; everyone leaves.) Men equaled pain and emptiness and a kind of false, vague direction about what life meant.

So I thank God for my husband. I thank God for my weirdness and my nesting instincts and my love of true friends and my propensity for staying at home. They weren't happy (or unhappy) accidents. I wanted the Sex in the City life, but God would never let me have it. I'm better. Or I'm getting better. All those angry, naked wounds are healing.

And that means Carrie is boring. And irrelevant. What a relief.


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Blogger JEB said...

So what was the terrific film with the teensy bad part?

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'm still trying to find out why you separate the towels and the underwear.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Blogger girlfriday said...

Anonymous: Don't you?

It was Juno, Jeb. That scene with Ellen Page and Jason Batemen on the couch watching that terrible movie.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Blogger Lois E. Lane said...


Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Blogger Susan a.k.a Lucy said...

lovely post...excellent reflections well put.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Blogger Everyday Anne said...

This one resonated with me. Maybe because it rings true in my own life.
The things we thought we wanted are often never what we really want. Of course you said it eloquently. Thanks.

Sunday, January 13, 2008


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