diary of a single woman: i'm tired of thinking

the mental load is real

diary of a (still) single woman is a regular-ish column for paid subscribers, which is exactly what it sounds like— a diary entry from yours truly, detailing a lot of the private and not-so-private things/thoughts I’m currently processing in real time. no editing.

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dear diary:

Most of the time I love living alone. Most of the time I love being single.

But lately, I’ve been feeling tired. Tired of always thinking about…everything.

Call the doctor.

Call the insurance agent.

Workout.

Grocery shop.

Clean the apartment.

Order xyz from Amazon. (sorry, yes, I’m still ordering from Amazon!)

Cook food.

Cook food again.

Clean up.

Clean up again.

Write.

Think about what you’re writing.

Actually, write this time.

Make more money.

Pay off debt.

Think of ways to pay off debt.

Seriously, write.

I guess why I am making this a diary entry is this…diary, I don’t want to think about all the stuff anymore. My cat, as much as I love her, is basically useless for anything beyond eating, pooping, and cuddling — and considering her brain is supposedly the equivalent of a toddler’s, she’s endearing, sure, but still very useless.

So it’s just me and me alone who needs to think about all the things, all the time.

I’m not saying a man will fix this — most married woman are known to do most of the emotional labour in a household — but I am saying, that I am tired.

I am tired of thinking.

I am tired of having something, many things, always on my mind.

always, always thinking…

It’s not only thinking about the day-to-day, or scheduling all the things, but also thinking about…me. Who am I? What do I want? Am I living the life I want? Am I happy? How do I make myself happy?

Yes, these are questions I ask myself quite regularly because I hate the idea of not living my life the way I want. And guess what? The way I want to live my life is by not…thinking all the time about it!

I mean, of course, there could be arguments for hiring an assistant (like I have the money for that, LOL) and that all this thinking is the byproduct of being an adult in a capitalist society.

BLAH BLAH BLAH.

I insist this isn’t just another Millennial complaining about modern adulting. I’m 42 years old. I pay my own bills. I’ve been employed for more than half my life. I’ve earned the right to eat my freaking avocado toast and buy $7 coffees with or without complaining about that.

Here’s what it really is, diary. Here’s what I really want to do.

I just want to BE.

I just want to not think one more second of what I need to do. I want to live primarily by my senses. By my desires. Something simplistic yet hedonistic. Now I know this sounds like something like out of The Blue Lagoon, and I insist it’s not that vain or inappropriate (although I wouldn’t mind banging a cute man on the beach who isn’t my cousin).

But what it comes down to is this: I don’t want to worry, fret, over-strategize, manage, oh my god, I don’t want to MANAGE anything else.

I just want to frolic.

Yes, frolic. Run through a meadow. Admire the birds. Write — finally, write! — in a leather bound journal underneath a tree.