I’ve been doing a ton of self-reflecting lately, mostly to uncover why I’m so irritated all the time. Is it my age? Hormones? Why do I perpetually yearn for the sweet release that only a Netflix romance series can bring? (“The Duke of Hastings”? Dear lord, help me). Then it hit me, I’ve been writing this column for 15 years. Fifteen! It started as a means to cope with my days as a stay-at-home mom, to vent my fears and frustrations about parenting and marriage. Also, because some unbelievably funny shtick happens in a house filled with four kids, a ginger Democrat, and the occasional exotic pet (RIP, Quickie the gecko!). Bottom line, gentle reader? You’re welcome!
Because for a decade and a half, Current has allowed me to connect with like-minded people who are tired of hearing about the perfect lives everyone else seems to be leading. Through my weekly purging of bottled-up emotions (since big girls don’t cry in public, except for the Meijer dairy aisle) – grief, joy, the overwhelming desire to throat-punch anyone eating granola in my vicinity – fellow average suburbanites can know they are not alone. In that sense, this column is really free, collective therapy for all of us who aren’t perpetually “#blessed.”
And personally, this column affords much-needed perspective and reminds me that I do, in fact, love my family and life, even if we aren’t the Bridgertons. I’m able to vomit mindless musings on you, my adoring fans, and then analyze them with a clearer head. If you’re highly and inexplicably entertained along the way? Well, that’s a win-win in my book. So yeah, you’re welcome.
Peace out.
