“At least you have something to talk about.”

This was my response the other day when my boyfriend apologized for rambling about his job and the yard work he does here at home. I could feel the wet, hot tears building up in my eyes as I wished I had something to ramble about.

The problem is, my job is boring. It’s not what I want to be doing with my time so it’s not something I want to talk about. Not only that, I care for a single elderly lady that sleeps most of the time while I’m there. The biggest problem I have at work is when my client’s Alzheimer’s kicks in and she gets irritable with me. I work alone. Sure, I see the daygirls for a moment during shift change, but it’s not the same as working eight hours together. My company has an office with employees, but the nature of my position gives me absolutely no reason to go there.

Then there are my kids or I should say, teenagers. They have their own lives. They may mess up once in a while, but it’s not like I’m struggling with potty training or a tendency to bite strangers. My kids can feed themselves. They even do their own laundry. Basically, most of the time I don’t even feel like a parent. It’s more like I’m a roommate with power.

I no longer play roller derby and have only recently returned to yoga. I don’t have team politics to discuss with friends. I don’t have that 10-minute mile to strive for on the treadmill. Again, my biggest problem is that I cannot seem to do needle pose with my head on one knee and the other foot reaching straight up to the ceiling.

Not only that, it seems to me that no one would want to listen to someone go on and on about things like wiping butts and perfecting downward dog.

There are a lot of things I would do and a few more that I would love to do. When I have a writing job, or am going to school, I have things to talk about. I bring home funny anecdotes about co-workers and my struggle with assignments. Unfortunately, that is not my life. Although, I could always ramble about the dishes that no one in my house will wash.

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