I hate being an astronaut

I could be fat. I could eat whatever I want, as I smile at my kids and my husband over some cheesy ABC Family special. I could never have to go running again. I hate running. Really, I hate exercise. But I do it because I have to. I could not do it, and I could eat pizza, oh how I miss pizza, and cookies and Buffalo wings. Have you ever had a really good Buffalo wing? It’s buttery and hot and there’s sauce everywhere and it is just the most delightful experience. I haven’t had a Buffalo wing in seven years. Gotta stay in shape and keep that bloodwork healthy. So I can’t get wonderfully fat.
We put off having kids. Then we got divorced as the reality of five years apart sank in. I could still be married, with four kids, driving an SUV for all the sports equipment, and camping in national parks and living a joyful life.
I gave up everything to be here.
I stare out at the black. I don’t want it. I want the family and the SUV and the Buffalo wings.
I hate the other people on the station. They’re all air force pilots and PhDs and people who have dedicated their lives to this. I dedicated my life to this. I jumped through the hoops. I so wanted to go to Mars. To collect samples. To run experiments.
To learn about the universe.
And I lost sight of the meaning of life. Joy.
There is no joy here. Only the black.

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