An old friend who has been offline for a while, found me via Instagram, and saw my pictures. She typed, I’m loving your new life, is it as perfect as it looks? Pah! Can any life really be perfect?
This is just my social media edited life. I don’t show the pictures of the hot slimy dog turds I pick up through a thin black bag that sometimes breaks so I get dog poo under my finger nail, there are no photos of me screaming at my children because they still haven’t brushed their hair/teeth, got dressed/moved from the telly/made their bed despite me asking nicely 6 times, they actually only seem to raise their heads when my face is bright red, my voice hurts from screaming and steam is coming out of my ears like in a cartoon.
I don’t post the sulks after rowing with my husband, the unmade beds, the pile of dishes stacked by the sink, the mobility scooter parked outside the British Legion of my new town, the over drawn bank statements, the endless search for a job that fits in with the children’s school hours, or the sadness that is now always there in the background after the loss of someone. But I don’t post the reality. Neither does anyone else judging by the amount of set up half cut open figs on a wooden chopping board taken from above or the tulips with one petal fallen off artistically into a muffin tin. Who lives like that?
It’s true, I no longer spend hours on Rightmove searching for the perfect (see there’s that word again) property. It doesn’t exist by the way. We have been lucky that we’ve landed in a nice spot. We couldn’t have known before we moved in after just two viewings of 20 minutes what the local community would be like, how the kids would settle from a massive school to a tiny school, how it snows here, thick fat flakes when five miles down the road there is none because we seem to have a little climate of our own. We could never have known how much we’d like coming back from walking the dog down the road across wheat fields to the smell of burning wood as the log burner is lit.
It’s always a risk moving from a city to the middle of nowhere. And it certainly is far from everyone’s idea of perfect. My cousin who lives in London couldn’t think of anything worse. My ‘perfect’ is different to your ‘perfect’. Whatever that may be. Naked skydiving and living in a hut in the middle of Wales anyone? Living on the top of a mountain in India? Or living down the road from mum and dad in a two bed semi, in a job you’ve had for years but that’s your happy? It might simply just be managing to get through another day. Everyone has a different completeness.
I’ve always had itchy feet, and boy, do those pictures of blue skies and endless white sandy beaches that the Australians are posting look tempting (perfect?), but right now, for us it’s as good as possible with two kids, a stinky dog and a temperamental Man City supporting husband. But ask me again tomorrow, because life’s weird like that, it’s forever changing.