Revising, not revisionist

After reading yesterday's post, the Love of my Life expressed concern for me. He said, "That reads like the writing of an unhappy person who's trying to convince herself that she's happy."

In fact, I have quite a few journal entries where I have written like that... I'm not going to share them with you here because they are sad and they embarrass me. However, because I've written that story before, I know that yesterday's post is not the same story. The problem with yesterday's entry is that it reads like the writing of a person who says she cares about writing but was too lazy to write well.

Here's the story: this weekend was dull. It wasn't fun, it wasn't busy, there was nothing doing and it was just dull. When I wrote about it, I was trying to get some perspective on it and I didn't do a good job.

My husband asks me on a fairly regularly basis, "Are you happy?" When he asks me this, he's not asking if I'm happy on a superficial level... it's not "Are you happy with your salad dressing?" or "Are you happy with the way your lipstick goes with your blouse today?" When he asks, it's because he knows that in my life I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy. I struggle with it -- I don't want to suffer all the time precisely because it is dull and heavy and it's a drag on the person who I love most. It also bothers me when he says that my writing sounds like unhappiness because it doesn't do justice to my life now. I have things in my life worth being unhappy about. A boring weekend is not one of those things.

So let me be clear on this point: This weekend was dull. Years ago, I would have never considered a weekend like this possible because I lived Friday nite at least 3 nights a week. It was fun. During that time of abundant Friday nites and fun, I had no hope of any real future, no hope of a permanent partner who is good and kind and trustworthy, no hope of having my own house, and no hope of having a job other than waiting tables or tending bar. It might seem I've made a deal with the devil: I've given up all those Friday nites (or I've spent more than my lifetime allotment), now I get stability and wholeness and goodness. If I have to sacrifice the occasional 48 hours to the demon gods of boredom, then so be it. The glory of Starz and Some and the duplex on Broadway is over. But since then I’ve had some moments that make those old Friday nites seem like dry toast. I’m not finished, y’hear me?