"I don't do anything anymore," I told Jason this weekend, as we were driving.
He looked surprised and then incredulous.
"You do stuff all the time," he reminded me. "You are one of the busiest people I know."
I guess that's true in a lot of ways. I work, probably too much. I'm a mom and a wife and a dog mom. I cook and bake all manner of delicious things. I joined a local women's organization and spend time volunteering. I walk and walk and walk. Sometimes? I write. I pray, I watch and I listen. I'm "busy". Being busy shouldn't be glorified though, and I'm not trying to do that. I have stuff and I get that I have stuff.
"Nothing I do matters," I told him.
That's the heart of it, I suppose. Of all this "stuff".
"I am beginning to feel like it's too late for me," I said quietly. "That nothing I ever do will matter ever again."
He looked surprised. Then he looked sad.
"I don't want to be famous or anything," I explained. "I never did. I don't even want to be anything at all except Stephanie. I just want to feel like I'm doing something. That something I do matters."
"But!" he said, "you make hinty billion dollars a year! You have such a great house! You have a really nice car!"
I sort of laughed to myself when he said this. He always says this first. I think it is somewhere, somehow painful for him that I make more money than him. I don't care...I've never cared. But he does. It hurts him. I don't know if this is a man thing or a Jason thing. But it is certainly a thing. It is something.
I love my house. I love my car. I am thankful for both of these things...more thankful than I can ever express. My house is the magic house that I dreamed of when I was a girl. The house I rode by in the dark of night, with the lights on in the dining room. I wondered who lived there. I imagined how happy they were.
But my house and my car, as wonderful as they are, are not my something. I know this. I've been happy in smaller spaces, with less floors to shine. I've been happy in a tiny, beat-up Plymouth Horizon.
"Those things are just things," I reminded him. "The money is nice, and I'm thankful for it, but it's just money."
He was quiet for a moment and then said,
"You have a husband that loves the Hell out of you."
Which, I suppose, is my something.
That he is the one person, out of all the people in the world, that loves the Hell out of me.
And if I never write another word, if I lose my house tomorrow, if my car blows up, if I never bake another delicious cookie? That something is enough.
(I'm still going to make cookies though. I freaking love cookies)