Ever since I can remember, I have loved Wednesdays. Maybe it’s because they’re the middle of the week, and I try to find the middle of everything: letters in words, perspectives, faces, tables, rooms. I don’t know what it is, but Wednesdays and I have always been tight like tigers.
I dread Wednesdays. All of them. I look forward all day with gloom that Wednesday has arrived again, which means that the person who lives upstairs from me (from whom I also rent) will arrive in the evening as well. And with him come noisy people who show little respect toward the two of us who live down here. I’m not asking for anything more than the opportunity to get a good night’s sleep. And yes, I’ve talked to him, and it got better for about a month. It sounds like he needs another reminder.
I do not consider myself a gloomy person. When people need the bright side, well dammit, they come to me. When Ex died, I found the positives (and yes, the negatives, too.) When my mom lived farther away, I appreciated my time with her more. Now I get to appreciate it more often. When changes occur at work, I say, “Sounds like a great opportunity!”
I’m miserable sharing this house with this person. And I strongly dislike how miserable I feel. It sets a bad example for my son. It makes me sarcastic and overcast. My sunshine packs up and leaves, just like I can hardly wait to do.
Six more months.
In six months, I want to drive home on a Wednesday and think, ‘Yay, I’m home from work on a Wednesday!’ and not, ‘Yay, I’m ready for my weekly sleep deprivation,’ or ‘Oh yay, Poopface comes home tonight. Yip. Eee.’
Let me set something straight. This place doesn’t suck. I live in a great neighborhood with lots of my sons friends nearby and a few other parents who don’t treat me like a complete, widowed freak. The person that I share a house with keeps vampire hours and I don’t. It causes me some sleep loss, and I don’t exactly think anything less than lots of mean thoughts with lots of F-words when I get woken up by drunk people after the bars close. Again, all I need is the opportunity for a good night’s rest, every night, for me and my son. I’ve grown so accustomed to getting woken up at 2:30 that my internal alarm clock goes off then, even on the nights that it’s quiet upstairs.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I feel grateful to have a place to live. Not everyone has a warm place to sleep.
A few have advised me to find another place to live ASAP. I considered it, almost daily, from the 3rd day I moved into this place. I still do. I reconsider it every Wednesday and sometimes on Thursday, and sometimes, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, too.
Little Guy and I talked about it. We both felt like we did and didn’t want to go. We decided together that we’d wait until the end of the school year. I didn’t feel right about moving him again. I feel like I push his limits (and mine) by moving every year.
Daily, I wonder what this choice will cost me. And him. Emotionally and mentally. Why I the fudgepop do I continue to sacrifice my happiness? I did it in my marriage and I’m doing it now. Why do I keep doing it? How will this affect Little Guy’s expectations in his future relationships? I believe in compromise, but some days, I feel like even with all the benefits of living here, putting up with the bad isn’t worth it.
Today is one of those days. I cannot ask myself, “Is it June 1st yet?” enough times.
In six months, just 180 days, only 4,320 hours, I will drive home and think, ‘Yeah, I miss that place, but I’m so happy we live somewhere else. And it’s Wednesday, my favorite day of the week!’
See you soon, Sunshine!