I’ve been burning the candle at both ends of late. Although, in my mind this phrase generally conjures up visions of blazing about town on a booze and boys filled frenzy, while simultaneously factoring in a day job. No such luck here.
What I’m alluding to, rather, is the day job- yes, still very much with the day job.
Every morning before embarking towards my ‘interlude in-between doing that which I really want’- aka my nursing gig – there you’ll find me, not so much tapping away on a handsome love interest, but on a keyboard. And all this occurs while I simultaneously climb, not a delightfully sculpted form, but the ever-increasing mountain of work that’s rudely positioned in the way of me finishing my first fictional cookbook (real recipes linked with a fictional storyline).
Despite high levels of stress and fatigue, I’ve been working under the guise that: to obtain the ultimate blissful existence (comprised of the ultimate career, partner, circle of friends, appearance, social life, financial security and possible children) one must relentlessly slog out their day until they finally arrive… and at which point they’ll magically beam with sweet content.
That’s the answer to the happiness equation… isn’t it??
I took a wee moment to calculate my arrival date to ‘happily ever after’. According to my rough estimation – after factoring in my dismal account balance, then taking into account that my future husband is nowhere to be seen, then multiplying this figure by the fact that I keep burning my cook book recipes, which doesn’t allow for time to obtain my optimum good looks, because as it stands right now, I’m accumulating more bags under my eyes than a socialite trails on vacation, which of course will require rectifying by beauty treatments, vitamins, and products to counteract this abomination, all of which will mean working more hours, once again leading to more eye bags, and let’s not forget the fatigue that will have me in cranky pants, leaving me with no other choice than to push my husband goal further down the track on account that stroppy cow tendencies have an annoying way of repelling marriage proposals.
But then I realise that after finally nailing down my betrothed, circumstances would have already postponed the arrival of my exquisite children so much so, that I quadrupled this figure by my ticking ovaries, which, according to my sums, will both be well shrivelled by action time, requiring me and my partner to trudge down the road of IVF, until finally, after popping out a couple of kids, I’ll look up slightly yonder to glimpse the top of the happy summit; only then to take an unfortunate tumble nearly to the bottom from the work hours required after signing the papers for the all-important mortgage and two vehicles with bumper bars (and let’s not forget the school fees), leaving us with no other choice than to smartly head for a divorce as a result of our separate lives and our counter-productive urges to scape goat our frustrations onto the people that we love… more eye bags… and therapy fees, leaving me once again to find another bloody husband… deep breath – I finally came to the rough figure that in a trillion years I will reach my goal of heady bliss.
This was a most disappointing development, I must say.
For days I wallowed in pity filled squalor, until thankfully, a dear friend opened my eyes to a foreign concept. On arriving at her quaint apartment I was greeted by an incandescent glow that made me want to snoop for signs of an orgy. On probing for juicy facts concerning her radiance, I uncovered that it was attributed to her new ability to relish in simple acts, for example: relaxing, reading a book, and sipping a cup of tea outside in the sun.
Can one do such a thing as this strange earthling speaks of? Surely not!
Cautious in nature, I decided to test out her theorem by cancelling plans to instead sip wine in the bathtub while reading a book. As I swished in the bubbles, I acknowledged the possibility of being too preoccupied with achieving happiness to marvel at crinkles on noses, the whiskers on kittens, snow filled packages and warm woollen mittens. (Which quite ironically, from their simplicity, some say actually hold the key to happiness.) They may have been at the top of Julie Andrews’ favourite things, but my list of treats entailed an extra five minutes sleep in the morning, a nursing shift that had me actually leaving on time and an electricity bill of a monetary amount that didn’t require putting on credit.
Are we all living our lives as but a mere means to an end, or, can achievement really bring happiness?
