I play for a living

Ah commiseration.  It bonds us, allows us to vent and to know we aren't the only ones with this struggle to endure.  I use to have a job where I could join the gripe fest.  Sales meetings with no apparent purpose or end.  Fabric covered walls that did nothing to drown out your yakking co-worker.  The microwave with a patina of blown up soup, salmon and peas.  I remember it all well.

I no longer have a corporate job with all the hair tearing out moments.  There isn't a day that goes by when I don't breathe a contented sigh at my job as an artist.  It's awesome, honestly and I am so grateful for it.  I just can't talk about it.

I might ask a friend, "How was your day?"  Then the low lights are discussed and I nod and shake my head in disgust at the appropriate moments.  Do they then ask me about my day?  Nope.  If I try to tell them about my delicious morning ski, my current painting on my easel, the fun conversation with a client I get stink eye.  Stink eye alone would be fine but then the mocking ensues. 

My husband, whose support and willingness to live on a little less makes my career possible, is just as bad.  I have many text messages that say, "I love and hate you."  Usually this is in reference to my lunch time hike or sun filled studio.  I mean such oppression!  Who can be creative when your friends and family are plotting your demise.  Is it my fault I have the world's best job? 

Wait....did you just roll your eyes at me?