Yesterday started off as a lazy, chilly Sunday morning — one of the first Sundays in months that we haven’t had somewhere to be at any certain time. And since I’d been up super early with little dude, who has a terrible cold, the hubster even sent me back to bed for a few hours, which was semi-luxurious (and much appreciated). And after I finally made my way downstairs for the second time, this time around 9:00 a.m. — I made myself a steaming cup of coffee, and parked my ass on the couch to peruse the pages of the newest Pottery Barn catalog.
And that’s when everything took a turn for the worse and officially went in the shitter. It never fails — every single time I so much as glance at the nauseatingly perfect pages of the Pottery Barn catalog, I instantly feel a wave of depression coming over me, and I start to wonder where in the hell I went wrong in life.
*Before I go any further, if your house really DOES happen to look like the Pottery Barn catalog, please know that I mean no disrespect. I envy you, and I totally want to be you when I grow up.
Because somewhere in between trying to raise my 6-year-old to grow up to be a decent human being, working full-time, running back and forth to various activities on the weekends, doing multiple loads of laundry and finding multiple excuses NOT to put it away once it’s folded, which leads to me doing even more multiple loads of laundry because I can’t seem to find a fuc&%ing clean outfit anywhere in my closet — and still managing to get in a few hours of relaxation and quality time with my family each week — let’s just say making my house into my own, personal Pottery Barn-like oasis has taken a bit of a back seat.
But still, I just can’t seem to resist torturing myself with that damn catalog every time it arrives in my mailbox — even though my self-esteem plummets to a new low every single time I open it. You know how seeing pictures of new celebrity moms who are suddenly back to a perfect size zero a mere eight weeks after giving birth (yes, I’m talking to you, Kristin Cavallari) makes you feel like a fat, frumpy, 35-year-old piece of shit who used to be hot and virtually cellulite-free in another lifetime? Yeah — that’s pretty much how the Pottery Barn catalog makes me feel about my lifestyle. It’s like the potential for my home to somewhat resemble those rooms is there — but I’m lacking the will power and determination it takes to actually do something about it.
Allow me to further prove my point with a nice, little visual comparison. Pottery Barn has a decor collection they call “The American Classic.” Um — their American Classic and my American Classic are two completely fu&%ing different things. (For the record, I think my American Classic is way more worthy of having the word “Barn” in the title.)
I rest my case. And don’t even get me started on the fu&%ing holiday issue.
Does Pottery Barn give you an inferiority complex too?