Now that I have left my world of magically made beds, automatic clean dishes and otherwise effortless domestic perfection it’s time for me to become imaginative lest it all comes to a screeching halt or better one gigantic unnerved scream. And I can tell, people around me are waiting for exactly that.
But so far I am actually doing better than should be expected. I serenely set tables, I frolick folding laundry and wash dishes, pick up toys, water plants, carry out garbage, wipe spilled milk (no crying) and still find time to keep abreast on what’s ailing Brad and Angelina.
The truth is that taking things back into my own hands has actually come as a relief. Since I didn’t grow up with help at home, I don’t really know how deal with it. I don’t know how to keep the gardener from knocking up the nanny, or maids from construing ever more fantastic fiction about what really happened to my butter dish, or the night guard from peeing in the pool.
I don’t have enough bitch in me to be an effective employer of the socio-economic less fortunate. And believe me, at times I wished I did. For instance, when within six weeks my nanny’s grandpa, great-grandma, and uncle died, her brother broke an arm, her mom was hospitalized, and the family dog had thirteen puppies. She never showed up once on Monday during that time.
The fact is, I am much happier in a space that I can easily manage myself in a community that is safe.
During my time in Costa Rica, I missed being able to walk around town without having to gage the risk of being either mugged, attacked by a dog, or run over by a truck. And the chances were pretty high – I went for short walks anyway.
Yet, hiking on the back roads is definitely not advisable – at least not for a woman, I was told – and so I didn’t. I signed up at the Country Club instead and stared at flawless teenage asses bobbing up and down on the stairmaster in front of me.
What would be paradise for some had become a tightrope for me.
Simply not my world.
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