In case you couldn't tell from the title, be warned that this may be a big, fat, steaming post of self-pitying, mewling, cry baby whining. Escape while you can. Click to the "next blog", shut your computer down ... save yourself!
There are days when I get so fed up with doing the right thing I want to hit a wall or curse at a priest. Mornings when I'm ready to chuck work, home and family into the abyss before breakfast. Afternoons I traipse off to some meeting, party or luncheon that I don't really want to go to, but I must because it's the responsible thing to do. Sometimes the burden of being responsible is just too darn heavy. Too clawing and clinging, not much fun. I think about running off to another state, getting a one room apartment, making my living as waitress in some truck stop and spending my nights alone in silent bliss writing until I fall asleep on my keyboard.
Then I cruise around blogdom and remember just how lucky I am, or one of the grandkids leaves an I Love You note on my nightstand... and I remember that any problems I have are nothing compared to some faced by other people every day of their lives. I remember that I've lived a charmed life free of physical or mental abuse or tragedy of any kind and I'm ashamed of myself for spending even one moment in self pity.
Responsibility, who needs it? Me. I do. The dues I owe for a lucky life filled with friends old and new, kids and pets who love me, sufficient food and shelter. I remember not to steal my own joy.