the childless housewife lament

A year ago I would have sworn that 24 hours was not enough time to fit all the life that demanded to be lived in one day. I fought to snatch an hour to read or have a cup of tea in between newspaper meetings, interviews and column writing, lunch with my mentor, savoring my sparse time with Ben, homework, yoga class, and a dozen other energizing opportunities. It is easy to idealize this time from my comfortable couch in the Faroe Islands, but there are lifestyle drawbacks to a pace that only allows a person to sleep for five hours a night. When I left college I needed some time, even a few months, to rest, refocus on important relationships, read, think and invest in my faith. But yesterday went too far. With Ben out of the house, I was left with what to do with myself. After a gluttonous week of Christmas celebrations, I thought a quiet day would be appropriate. On my agenda was take a walk, study for the LSAT, make walnut sticky buns, read some of the books I recently got as gifts and continue knitting the cherry red socks I am making myself. In the Faroes the hours in a day are stretched out by the strong magnetic pull of North. After completing all of these activities, I blankly realized it was only 5 p.m. I bounced around the walls of my small apartment aimlessly for a few minutes, and then took up the television remote. Over the course of the next several hours I watched all, or parts of: Terminator 3, The Family Stone, Ray, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Scarface, Cribs: Young in Hollywood, Friends with Money, Take the Lead and The World’s 25 Sexiest Supermodels. If watching too much mindless television would have been the only element of my destructive lifestyle it could perhaps have been excused, but I added gluttony to my sloth. Over the course of the evening I also ate the rest of our coveted bag of Lay’s potatoes chips ($6/piece), the rest of our crackers with brie, three large Christmas cookies, a fish sandwich, and a quesadilla with so many jalapeños that I had to immediately fortify myself with heartburn medicine. At least I know how I don’t want to live. Over the past few months I have been gently teased for being a “good wife”. I knit, I bake almost every day, I host people over as often as we can find volunteers, I make Christmas gift trays with five varieties of sweets, and once I made dinner place tags out of fresh Bartlett pears. Seemingly I am after the title of “Martha Stewart—Faroese Edition”. In fact, I am just trying not to go crazy. It is not that matters of home and family excite me so much that I am compelled bake another loaf of multigrain bread; I just don’t have anything else to do. I am used to applying my energies to conversation, academic work and relationships, but as I find myself knocked out of my usual stride, I am trying to pursue my new life with the same energy. I hide my insecurity at my sudden lack of occupation and friendships behind a big tray of cookies, clean counters and a fake smile. I expect any day to be contacted about a job at the local bank that would provide structure for my life here, but until that time maybe I will take up cross-stitch, running, wood whittling and stamp collecting. I need something to do for at least the next week until movies come on our television that I didn’t see last night. -a