My Kids Don’t Understand Me
I don’t watch much television. Can’t sit still. I’m not a great conversationalist. I want to say, “Hi, how are you?” and be on my way. I hurry through the supermarket tossing things in the cart. I go for a walk-run, my poor little dachshund’s legs scurrying to keep up. I blame my upbringing. I’m from Massachusetts. Everyone’s always in a hurry. I moved to New Hampshire where life was supposed to be slower. Still I couldn’t slow down.
One of my daughters owns a salon. During down time between clients she invites family to chat, to shoot the breeze. I never go. Another daughter is a movie buff. She knows all the actors’ names; she can recite dialogue (drives us nuts). She asks if I saw such-and-such. I rarely have. My husband sits for a coffee break and actually drinks the whole cup. I sip, fold laundry, sip, wash dishes. They all think I’m strange.
What’s the point? The contrast between the off-time me and the worker-me.
I’m a workaholic. I love my editing job. It takes a lot of hours—sitting still. Probably I shouldn’t blame Massachusetts. Maybe it’s just my day job that’s produced the strange-me.