The case for an ordinary life

There’s a footrest in our living room that matches the height of our coffee table. Whenever I want to write comfortably, I sit on it and use the coffee table as my desk. This usually results in me looking like a giant on a kindergartener’s stool. Time to go to preschool! I announce to my husband to signal that I need silence because I’m writing.

What do I write about these days? It’s just an ordinary life. I’m told it’s good practice nevertheless. Knowing how to write and writing itself shouldn’t have anything to do with the absence of content. One must continue to create something out of nothing to keep the habit going. I find myself agreeing with the notion of mundane writing because after having taken a sudden break — for, what, six years? — it is a relief to be throwing some words out there, emptying the contents of my brain onto this metaphorical paper. But what if I only keep doing this? I guess I’ll have to live long enough to find out.

There are so many things I like doing these days. I like binge watching a movie or a series on a television while sitting on the sofa — something that I haven’t done since I was a wee child, and partly when I was a teenager. I like clearing the sink and cleaning the ceramic stovetop with that squeegee-like blade. I like vacuuming our hair off the white bathroom rug. I like putting my husband’s slippers in place. I like calling my mother and telling her about the things I’ve cooked recently and those that I’m planning to this week. I like knowing no one’s going to knock at the door because they need something from me. I like meditating and thinking about the things that have been bothering me lately and trying to find a sustainable way forward (this is still a difficult work in progress). I also like reading new books, fiction and non-fiction, and revisiting some old ones. I like dressing up just because and putting on lipstick everyday even though I’m home. I like being in my 30s, what a wonderful and glorious era it is to not give a shit because you’ve crossed the giving shits age limit. I like cleaning up, dressing down, getting comfy in a place I can safely call my own home. I am grateful for all that we have.

The other day I went grocery shopping and a cashier was very rude to me for no obvious reason. I was baffled but my husband figured out the mystery almost immediately: “She was envious of the fact that you’re lovely.” I laughed on the street while walking back home and felt the anger slide off of me.