Blah. I’m exhausted. I’ve been fighting this cold that will not come on, but will not go away. Doug’s dental work is probably going to cost tens of thousands of dollars. Work is overwhelmingly busy, as it will be until mid-January. We’ve put ourselves on a strict pasta/PB&J diet, in order to be able to afford to buy each other Christmas presents. The guy in the apartment above us will not turn down his bass. It’s one of those rare moments when I’m actually glad I don’t have a child to worry about, and that I probably won’t anytime soon.
It is what it is, and I’m doing okay with it. Only, occasionally, I break down. This morning, I got into an “argument” with the supervisor who writes my and Doug’s schedule. And I use the term argument loosely, because it was more of a discussion – an awkward exchange of apologies between two people who hate confrontation – to clear up a misunderstanding.
And I started crying, and rattled off the above list, and told him about the lady who yelled at me last week, and said that I feel like there’s a lot out of my control right now, which is probably why I’m being so uncharacteristically control-freakish about my schedule. Which is true, but definitely has that “spent too many hours in therapy lately” ring to it.
Our discussion definitely became less awkward and more human with the introduction of my tears, but crying is not my preferred way of getting what I want in life. Then our manager joined us, and, after catching up on the situation, she offered the following prognosis and prediction: “It’s about the money. It’s always about the money. You’re doing just fine, and things will work out.”
I went back to what I was supposed to be doing: collecting carts. And as I pushed a short stack of them along the sidewalk, an older man, sitting in his car in the handicapped spot, stuck his head out the window and said,
“Hey, you’re strong!”
I smiled, and thanked him, and took it exactly the way I needed to.