Minus the hairy feet.
I'm not sure if this is a medical condition or a sign of old age, but every day, I find that I'm more and more happy just staying home and being alone.
It's not that I don't like people.
Okay, yes it is.
But not always! There are some people I can tolerate being around. And there are some I actually like a lot! But there are those few darn people who make it pretty doggone hard to keep oneself from being a mistrustful misanthrope, and it's those people who make me break out in hives when I hear their ringtone on my cell phone, or send me hiding in my closet when there's a knock on the door.
There are people I truly like, though, but I find myself less and less inclined to just hang out with them, even though they've done nothing wrong and they're very fine people with no visible signs of wanting to devour my soul. There are simply more days that I'd like to be alone, or with my husband and kids, than out socializing and schmoozing. Part of it is fear of judgment. Part of it is the avoidance of banal small talk.
But part of it is my own failure to meet my expectations of myself.
I fantasize a lot. I dream of being well-liked, or well-known, or well-achieved. I plan amazing things and become delusional about their success. I devise grandiose schemes and wonder why I'm disappointed when they don't work out. I like the thought of perfection. I like the thought of success. I want an amazing garden, and an amazing house, and amazing kids, and an amazing marriage. Heck, I'd settle for an amazing blog! But when it comes right down to it, I don't really have the tools necessary to achieve greatness, like discipline and money and talent.
That can be a problem for someone like me.
See, if I'm not living up to my own standards, which are pretty flippin' high, how do I think that other people are going to accept me, or, even more desirable, admire me, like me? And when I think someone's just on the verge of liking me, I can't handle the impending criticism that I just know is hanging on the very tip of their tongue. I don't need to hear how my storage container cupboard isn't as organized as it could be, or how I could keep my recipes in a binder instead of in a kitchen drawer, or how I'd be able to save more money of I used more beans and rice, or how my dogs are scaring the deer away or how I sabotaged the family event by showing up late or how I borrowed the electric skillet and it wasn't as clean as it should have been when I returned it. And since I've had my share of people chewing me out for being inadequate or being suspicious of my intentions, regardless of how hard I tried, I kind of seize up, feel like the trying itself is completely futile. When what I thought was my best wasn't good enough for others, or when I don't feel that I'm doing my best regardless of what others tell me, the very best plan I can come up with is to just hole myself up at home and avoid the rest of the great big ugly world and all of its crazy inhabitants.
That's the plan for today.
I stayed home from church. I'm not going to the grocery store. I won't set foot in a restaurant. I don't plan on leaving my room much. My biggest goal for the day will be to put food in my mouth and fold a pile of underwear. Today, my DVD player is my friend. My bed is my habitat. Neither delusion nor grandeur will be a part of my plan.
See? Don't attempt much and disappointment is nearly impossible.
Now, that's not how I generally live my life, but, for today, it's what I need.
Or at least it's what I'm doing.
