by BIANCA WORDLEY
As I stand washing the dishes, the kids start complaining about dinner, again. I try to ignore them. I look down at my wrinkled hands. They look old. I push my hair back off my face, my crooked fringe I stupidly cut myself, and I wipe some suds off my wobbly belly. I look down at the raggedy slippers on my feet and at my ill-fitting tracksuit pants and sigh. I am everything I didn’t want to be. I’m a frumpy, middle-aged housewife. I’ve lost my identity.
With my back to my family, I start to cry. My tears drop into the soapy water. Even my sadness is diluted by domesticity.
My husband touches my shoulder and asks me what’s wrong. I say I don’t know and escape to my bedroom. I need space. My life is baring down on me, suffocating me.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the wall. My tears have stopped. I have nothing left to give. I feel like an empty shell. I know I have to write it down. It will help.
This is why I blog, because it helps me tap into that part of me which refuses to be smothered by the mundane.
It’s not the only reason. I blog because I love to write. I love connecting with other people. I love making people laugh.
I blog because I want to document a day in my family’s life, for memories’ sake.
I blog because I think I need to get my stats up – a picture here and a quip there.
I blog because I have a burning desire to comment on a societal issue or to make a statement about a completely ridiculous celebrity.
I blog because someone’s paid me to.
I blog because I’m drunk and I saw an ad on TV and it makes me want to take pictures of my belly for the world to see.