“Aren’t we such a lucky generation to be living in the height of the digital age?”
One of my uber-techie friends once posed that question to me. My first impulse was to smile, nod and emphatically agree. So lucky! All this amazing social media! All these wonderful ways to keep connected to everyone and everything. All. The. Time.
Then, I thought about it a bit more. Thought about it from the perspective of who I now am. A thirty-something wife, mother, ex-corporate drone whose main mode of keeping up with the outside world is through the wide open spaces of the Internet. Facebook is my crack. My iPhone may as well be another appendage. I’ve stuck my toe into the Twitterverse. And, I’m seriously considering naming my next kid “Google” for it’s meaningful role in my life.
I don’t have actual voice-to-voice conversations with hardly anyone anymore. I’m a text-a-holic. I should be in a twelve step program. And, God help me when it comes to Emoticons. Those little suckers get me every time. I’ve become a slave to technology… and I like it.
That being said, technology and I have a love-hate relationship. On a daily basis, I find myself pouring over status updates and tweets from family, friends, frienenemies, and the occasional celebrity (or forty) and, most times, the emotions that come back at me are envy and guilt.
Yup. My beloved social media turns on me and bites me square in the butt. I’m jealous of my single friends and their super awesome lives of going to movies. In. Actual. Movie. Theaters. Their (numerous) selfies depicting carefree lives of happy hours, new (and pre chewed-food free) clothes, concerts, and all the other fabulous things I used to get into in my pre-mommy days. Bitches. See? There it is. That good ol’ green eyed monster.
Then, there’s the guilt. That’s a whole other monster that really hits below the belt. The guilt brought on by reading about someone’s amazingly romantic getaway they planned for their husband. Hello? Wife guilt? Party of one. Most days my husband should be damn lucky he’s fed, has clean clothes (maybe not folded and/or put away), and the house is still standing. That, my friends, is an accomplishment.
Then, there’s the oh-so-special mommy guilt. This one’s the real zinger. The guilt you get after reading status update after status update from your friends who seemingly have their crap together. Like, so much so that you seriously wonder if they’ve taken a trip to Stepford lately. Reading about how they have the best, smartest, most well-behaved kids ever, they’ve cleaned their entire house, fit in an awesome workout, taken said amazing kids to the park for a play date, cooked a gourmet meal, spent quality time with their equally amazing husband, and still had time to SHOWER AND PUT ON FULL MAKEUP! I read this as I sit in yoga pants and a semi-clean t-shirt, stuck in a pile of toys and books while my toddler and three dogs run wild around me. You got it. Mommy of the year material.
So, I’ve decided to fight back. I’ve decided to take my truth to the masses. Put a little reality out there about my amazing, wonderful, awesome, insanely normal life. The Rogue Housewife. Attempting to conquer the digital beast with my fortitude and willpower and an assist from some awesome arts and crafts and Betty Crocker type cooking. Wish me luck!