High expectations

7 Sep

I’m going to preface this post by saying I have absolutely nothing of interest to say. I am, quite simply, bored. And sick. Again. But mostly bored.

Technically, I’m supposed to be working. Or should be working, but I’m at the tail end of my overly long one hour lunch break and feel like I should have just got back to work 20 minutes ago, rather than wasting time checking to see if our country has a new leader yet or not (it doesn’t).

But because I’m unwell, and because my eyeballs feel like someone has taken to them with sandpaper, and because my brain feels like it’s trying to push its way out my nose, I’m not exactly inclined to do much work today. I’d much rather potter around and try to find something to cheer me up because the office is deathly quiet and I’m desperately trying to hide behind the mountain of work on my desk in the vain hope no-one will notice me.

Anyway, aside from being dicked around for the past 17 days about who will take the helm as Australia’s next PM, I can’t find anything interesting going on in this country anymore. Sure, someone blew up a whale on the WA coast (which I think is horrible) and there have been the usual medical breakthroughs that say that women just aren’t doing enough of this or that and are subsequently putting their babies lives at risk (this week it’s sunshine, last week it was junk food, the week before it was lack of sleep), but aside from that, nada.* And thus I am BORED.

If I’m honest with myself, what I really want is to be pregnant and sitting at home in a rocking chair with my enormous belly, knitting something pretty with a quiet look of contentment on my face, while Milo plays with the ball of yarn at my feet and Ry fixes me tea. I would KILL for a cup of tea right now. And a foetus. And a rocking chair.

I don’t know quite how it’s all going to work, but that’s my plan. To make a nice living baking cakes, knitting, and doing other domestic related trivialities. While busting hard stories on international crime, of course. I guess I’m having another mid-twenties crisis where I start to question the meaning of life and realise that I’m still in the same damn holding pattern I’ve been in for years, despite having done my best to convince myself that I’m actually doing something I like. Don’t get me wrong, I like where I work now. I just wish I were doing the same job for Kenya Aid, from home, with a cake in the oven and a cat on my lap. And a meaty feature on my computer.

I guess what I want, is it all. Isn’t that what us Gen Y’s were promised way back in the day when our mothers decided to throw in the apron and tell their kids that they could be, and do, whatever they wanted? What they should have done is given us some realistic expectations. Like, ‘You can have it all, as long as you don’t want too much’. Or, ‘Sweetheart, you’re actually not all that bright/industrious/good-looking. I love you, but you probably can’t have it all so how about you have a think about it now, before you hit highschool, and try to lower your expectations just a bit.’

But no. I was indoctrinated into the you-can-have-it-all camp. Which means I get the pleasure of swinging between the elation of trying to do everything that comes my way, and the realisation that I can’t possibly do it all and do it all properly. Sigh. Just another day of confused expectations and ideals I guess. Maybe I am pregnant after all.

* I blame Steig Larsson. Ever since I started reading the Millennium trilogy I’ve been obsessed with Salander and the need for some serious investigative journalism. I need to crack a conspiracy. I just haven’t found one yet.

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