"Ow--My Most of Me"

I'm a bit late in answering the first question of my new feature, "Ask Me Anything." And I'm sorry about that, but I've been busy. In fact, I can hardly move my fingers enough to type this out [and it doesn't help that Poor Kyle's keyboard is ridiculously difficult to use]. I'm sure you all want to know what it is I've been doing. Read on...

Q {anonymous}: What do you do all day if you don't work, go to school or care for children? Do you like this state of existence or are you going to do something different in the future? Does poor Kyle support what you do/don't do?

A: Whatever the heavens I want, actually.

It's quite nice. I "garden" [a term I use loosely]:

Make chocolates and eat chocolates:

I recycle truckloads of cans and bottles:

And without children to tote around and worry over, I am free to take each day as it comes. I fly by the seat of my pants. When I go to historic parks, I can take photos of myself in front of water mill wheels, without stressing that someone will steal my kids in their stroller while I'm not looking:


As far as Poor Kyle's support, I suppose my anonymous commenter would have to ask him. My perception is that he loves me no matter how diligently I do or don't decorate our house while he's at work. I, myself, am perfectly happy with my life right now.

Sometimes, though, when people ask me "What do you do all day, Camille? How do you fulfill your life's dreams without a job, or a degree, or snot-nosed kids waking you up at 6 in the a.m.?" I start to feel like I have to defend my existence. So for the past few days I've been doing this:



Mowing lawns. It's not a bad job, actually, when I'm not doing it for 12 hours at a time [which I attempted yesterday]. Because when I do try it for 12 hours at a time, my hands turn redder than a Hot Tamale™, and I get blisters on my feet the size of a few extra big toes:



Last night after coming home from my 9 to 9 work day, I was literally walking on my heels to get around. because walking any normal way was too painful. And then this morning, I had to wake up and do the entire thing over. So before heading off to my "job," I prepared my feet for the onslaught: I popped my four blisters (collecting over a tablespoon of puss from the combined poppage, and completely soaking three tissues in the process), bandaged each one, and donned three pairs of socks, in an attempt to soften the blow.

My mother-in-law cannot understand why I would want to do something like this.

"Because," I explain, "I want to feel productive."

"Why?" she wonders.

"So I can be a contributing member of society..."

"But...why?" she persists, clearly confused.

"So I can have money of my own...?"

"Well, I don't know why you'd want to do anything like that if you don't have to."

And you know what? She may be on to something. This whole job nonsense...it's exhausting.