I have a follow-up thought to yesterday's post, one that finally came to me at three this afternoon, because last night was one of those pass-out-at-9, semi-wake-at-11, stare-uncomprehendingly-at-Jon-Stewart, roll-over-and-snooze-for-another-hour, get-up-and-blot-the-drool-on-the-sofa-cushion, realize-you-never-washed-the-dishes, hose-them-haphazardly-with-the-spraything, realize-you're-wide-awake, watch-CraigyFerg-for-as-long-as-you-can-bear, switch-over-to-the-Daily-Show-rerun, struggle-with-the-vague-sensation-that-you've-seen-this-before, turn-everything-off-and-go-check-on-the-kids-using-your-phone-as-a-flashlight, wonder-if-your-heart-will-burst-from-the-love-you-feel, lie-awake-hoping-you-don't-let-them-down, drift-off-for-two-precious-hours-until-the-alarm-goes-off type of nights.
It's been two years since I moved out, and over that time circumstances have dictated that I live pretty modestly. Which has always been fine. I threw out half my life, literally and figuratively, when my marriage ended, and I don't need much to be comfortable. Plus, having a small place means everything is nearby, and I can usually re-fill my glass without having to get up.
The thing is, I joined a book club several months ago. Each of us is expected to host, and the spectrum of apartments that the other members have runs from Spacious Enough With A Great View to Jesus I Hate You So Much Right Now. And then there's me, who could probably fit everyone in my place if I invested in a few bunkchairs.
I guess what I'm saying is that, now that the divorce is no longer kicking up clods of lifedirt, I've discovered the hubris of Want. Maybe I Want a little more room to entertain, and to hold the ever-burgeoning Lego foothill in the corner. Maybe I Want a job that's more suited to my long-term goals. Maybe I Want to live beneath someone who doesn't berate the world at all hours of the night.
Maybe I Want to believe that I deserve a little more than this.
So I've been striving a bit more lately, and I've discovered that the Wanting is fine--unless it comes without the concomitant Getting. Which is a drag.
The pleasure, I guess, is in the striving. In staying determined to throw out your stick and see how many lacrosse balls you can snag as they whiz by. And never forgetting that there's always room for a bigger net.