For example, I spent the last couple of days painting furniture, accompanying a car-shopping friend, booking upcoming flights, critiquing a short story, playing the part of a phone therapist, keeping up with emails, texts, and the news, and spending way too much time stressing over the current state of affairs in this country. I'm exhausted. The thought of watching soap operas all afternoon sounds appealing . . . and vaguely familiar.
Growing up, I went to a neighborhood elementary school in a small town, which meant that we all walked home for lunch and then back for the afternoon session. There were only a handful of kids whose parents both worked; they brought their lunch to school everyday and ate at their desks. The rest of us were terribly jealous of them and looked forward to those half-days before a holiday vacation when we, too, could carry our own lunch boxes to school and dine at our desks, the room smelling of bologna and peanut butter and whatever garlicky concoctions some kids had to eat.
But I digress. On a regular day, when my sister and I walked home for lunch, we entered the house to find a tomato and lettuce sandwich or Campbell's chicken noodle soup already in place on the table for us. My mother was certain to have lunch ready before noon so that she would not miss The Guiding Light, Search for Tomorrow, and Love of Life. I can no longer remember which was which, but two of these soap operas ran for only 15 minutes, while one stretched out for a full half-hour. During commercials, my mother would disappear into her bedroom to don her white uniform and fix her hair for the afternoon portion of her job as secretary to a hometown doctor. At 12:45, she was redoing our ponytails, the rough brushing causing us to wince in discomfort, and then shooing us out the door with the daily command, "DON'T RUN!"
Once in high school, I could no longer follow the daily drama of Vanessa Sterling, Joanne Gardner, and the Bauers and the Spauldings. And my college dorm had no TV. But in 1973, when I was finished with my education and had begun a teaching career that allowed me certain sick days and vacation days and summers off, I was able to latch on to a new soap, The Young and the Restless. I continued to follow the shenanigans of the Newmans and the Abbotts for a good twenty years, thanks to the miracle of VCR machines. My husband never tired of shouting "Rat Patrol!" whenever Eric Braedon's character, Victor Newman, was on the screen as I watched that day's episode while preparing supper.
I don't really remember when I let go of my Y&R obsession. But it may have coincided with my decision to keep the drama in my life at a minimum. There's enough unavoidable drama to deal with; why take on the drama of fictional characters? At any rate, after maybe a week or two of withdrawal, I never really thought about the absence of soap operas in my life.
Until today. Would I enjoy a life of routines, predictability, mundane happenings, and repetition? When my life presents me with complications and expectations and overwhelming responsibility, I crave the ordinariness of a simple life. But when my life seems too simple to engage me, I channel my wanderlust and search for ways to shake it up.
The next couple of months are full of company, travel, and all-consuming projects that I promised myself I would accomplish this winter. Not to mention that my oldest child is getting married at the end of June! I could say that my life is frazzled. Or I could say that my life is full.
I think I'll choose the latter.
Two snow days and I'm back to being hooked on General Hospital after 30 years. But back to work tomorrow, leaving the drama to the actors and actresses. Right where it should be.
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