Today’s assignment in my writing book is to write a story in which the protagonist does not get what she wants but nevertheless ends up happy. I’m drawing a blank. Crazy because, well, this seems like the absolute frickin’ theme of life. Actually, THAT’S what I want to write. I want to write about the assignment rather than writing the actual assignment. And is it just me and my sense of irony, or is that yet another way that I’m not getting what I want but ending up happy? Of course, lots of us don’t end up happy. But that’s the struggle, isn’t it? I’m tempted to say it’s the actual meaning of life, but I won’t. I’m still holding out on discovering something more profound. Or glittery. And there are people who get what they want. (Accumulated bitterness in my heart makes me think these people are rare.) And to be honest with you, I believe that most people, when it comes right down to it, don’t actually know what they want. So they have exactly no chance of getting it. Speaking
We’re relisting. The house didn’t sell last fall so we’ve waited six months and now, here we go again. And I feel…I feel…I couldn’t put my finger on it as I sat across from M at lunch. He waited for a moment in silence and then said, “Like you’re standing out there naked.” Exactly! In fact, that’s precisely how I’ve felt all four times we’ve put a house up for sale. (The other two houses and this one twice.) I was surprised that M felt it too, but maybe it’s just that obvious. You’re about to expose yourself, let one stranger after another come traipse through your home. They’ll rate your housekeeping skills and your taste in art. They’ll peek in your cabinets. Use your toilet. They’ll judge everything about your most private space and probably make assumptions about you to boot. They’re there to evaluate the house, sure, but how can you not feel, at least a little, that they’re judging you? Especially me. My identity is tied to my house. Even here, where we’ve lived just over a ye