There’s like a bazillion people in this world and not everyone’s got Fathers who look after their children. Not all children get to experience the joy of having a strong foundation that is manifested by a father by their side. Perhaps I am lucky but a part of me neglects that fact.
Of all people who were lucky to have a dad and of all young girls, I think that I’m more a scullery maid than a princess.
Perhaps it’s really the culture here in the country that I belong to that I am expected to be a wonder woman in keeping the house than a sophisticated young lady. At my age, girls are bound to be a wise housekeeper and cook. Everyday is a war between me and the house that takes a hurricane to manage. (Maybe this is me being a complainy bitch more than a writer). But yeah, it’s a struggle for a highly exposed (to technology, of course) young woman that I am.
Maybe I think this way because I grew up too early knowing all these everyday tasks even though I have yet to perfect them. I guess I did grow up pretty fast that I know I can manage knowing them but still, I find myself yearning for other things that I know I’d surely enjoy doing. Yeah, maybe that’s what’s going on,
I know I am capable of doing my housework. [Yay] BUT— I know I’m too much of an outgoing person to be cooped up in a place where I cannot really extend myself enough to be genuinely productive. If anything, productivity matters to me because I really like getting things done. I also like to think that I have my own system. And by that I mean a “messy system” quite similar to what we call “working mess.” Perchance we can all agree that as we are all different, we all possess various types of sense of organization as well. And I believe in that.
Now what makes this conflicted is that I am actually “weird.” Mind you, I’m not saying this like I’m a mainstream-ish hipster kind of weird but I am my own brand of weird which means I’m quite different from others, especially my exceptionally typical family of different species of humans.
I think I appear to be overly descriptive and exaggerated for wording that out. But I guess I could save myself from that judgment since I can justify that it’s true. We’re a whole bunch of different and I’m unfortunately fortunate to be a mish-mash of all those different in one human skeleton. [Hi!]
Here comes the real issue: I feel like I am misunderstood by the people I live with. It appears that my working mess does not seem to compliment my very own environment. And it is concerning to see how I don’t seem to feel satisfied because the people that I do these daily tasks for don’t appear happy with the work that I do. It does not feel adequately satisfying either. Everything just seems to be tolerable but never genuinely good enough; especially when I start to hear my father’s comments about exactly every little thing that he does and does not see about the work that I contribute in this household.
Perhaps you might find this issue being repeatedly posted in this blog. I can fairly declare that it actually is a daily struggle among other upbringings that I do have. Nevertheless, I think I’ll not shut up nor stop crying about this until I finally find answers why such events do occur in my extraordinarily odd life.
A Fistful of Sparkles 