So yesterday I had a bit of a crisis.
It started with an innocent myspace message from an old college friend who also went to massage school while her kids were little, seven years ago. And now she’s started selling real estate. Because she’s burned out.
I won’t lead you through the prickly thought process, but it ended in a giant WTF that included thoughts you might suspect. Thoughts like “what the fuck am I doing?”
But you’ve heard this all before, no? It’s more common on days when I sit here in my office and have nothing pressing going on, and I sit and just stew. And I get restless. I start thinking about how my half-ghetto, half-hipster neighborhood is no place to raise a child. Or at least maybe not the place I want to raise a child. I start to miss quiet nights and unlocked doors and I decide that we need to pack it up and head back to Bloomington. I also decide I’d like to get wicked drunk and smoke a bunch of cigarettes.
And then I try to explain all of this to A. and it comes out sounding less than half as dramatic and urgent as it does in my head and my gut. Because he tends to live in reality, and not worry about the things that have not yet happened. Lucky bastard.
And dear God, this chatter is already boring me to tears. Feeling better/ more level today, but the restlessness is still ticking. Ticking, ticking.
Because the point is that really, what the fuck am I doing? Am I fixing a problem, or just changing jobs? And if that’s the case, why not just stay here where I have unlimited freedom and the occasional dead person? And what is my fucking problem anyway? No matter what happens, I still need to work so that we can have little luxuries like a roof over our heads. And really–I can’t believe I’m saying this– at this point, Birdy freaking loves daycare and I’d wrestle with myself for pulling her out even if I could. And I know moving closer home is not an answer, but it’s always my go-to option because life was simpler when we lived there. And the Grandparents. The Grandparents need the Bird. I need some kind of cottage industry. Something I can just pour myself into, something that comes naturally. I need to stop job-hopping and fucking around. I need to work toward something, not around something. And this is exactly the prickly shit I told you I would not drag you through. Maaah.
So let’s talk about pooping, eh? I don’t understand the “light a match” trick to get rid of bathroom smells. My family just never did that. Is it a southern thing? Maybe I’m doing it wrong, but I just lit a match in the bathroom at work and now it smells like I set some poop on fire.
The heating and cooling guy came for our spring tune-up yesterday, speaking of smelling like shit on fire. I will be having semi-permanent nightmares and flashbacks of the (literally) sheets of hair he removed from the big humming machine downstairs. He also thought that (since I mentioned that I used to work in mental health) (and BTW, yes, I know better than to say that, but I was in the aforementioned crisis and I can’t be held accountable) that he ought to run down the laundry list of meds he’s taking and ask me in a panicked voice if he was going to go “really crazy.” Did I mistakenly claim to be psychic? Because, dude. Maybe you have already gone crazy. And maybe I have as well. I thanked him for peeling the layers of hair off of the whatchamacallit and sent him on his way with a big “you’ll be FINE!” and a fake smile. Because at least I don’t have to solve those kinds of problems anymore, and for that I am thankful.
Bird has been piping up with some crazy chatter lately, like this very serious warning, which she will shout right in your face, with great urgency:
“Mo-kees! Tey combeen! (translation: Monkeys! They’re coming!)
Monkey Threat Level: Orange