"Deep Thoughts": March 2011 Archives

I won't talk about how long it's been, because I hate going to blogs and reading those kinds of disclaimers. I post when I feel like it; I don't when I don't. This isn't a job. And now that I have a job, it's nice to be able to say that.

My life has changed so radically that I hardly know how to express it. I went from standing on a nasty precipice for an extended length of time (not jumping, mind you, or even quite falling, but getting dizzy and sad from looking at the drop) to suddenly being tossed a lifeline. But it happened so fast that I've hardly had time to adjust.

A few weeks later I woke up after a particularly bad night (45 minutes of sleep is not enough for a growing girl) and realized I needed to move right now. So in that dogged, resourceful way I get when I'm desperate (which, I begin to realize, is quite a useful skill), I began looking for and almost immediately found a better apartment. Same amount of space, nicer building, quieter neighborhood, less money.

Since then it's been the usual cavalcade of completely inconvenient and scary health problems that seem to accompany any big change, and trying to juggle the overwhelming demands of new job, packing up all my possessions (which, for an adult person with a lot of books and a lot of hobbies, is not a small job), dealing with pesky freelance hangers-on, and so on.

It's a lot.

The only part of it that really bothers me is the health crap, because, well, it's crappy. I may need more surgery - two kinds, in fact - and in the meantime, it hurts to do most anything. And of course, the one thing I really shouldn't be doing is heavy lifting. Yeah.

Everybody keeps telling me - oh, don't complain, because it's only another couple of weeks and then you'll be in your new place, where everything will be all bright and shiny. Well, my new place promises to be lots better, certainly, and I expect to be a lot happier there. But bright and shiny and perfect and solving all the world's problems? No. It's just a nice apartment.

I'm still going to be broken and in pain, and needing surgery, and I'll still get lonely at night and wonder whether that swelling is anything to worry about, or whether I've just gotten fat in those four days off the bike.

And I'll have weeks and weeks more of lifting, and shifting, and drilling and hanging, and putting together of new dressers, and the cat waking me up at 4 am because she's convinced herself she's starving to death and needs to be fed right that moment.

In other words, life goes on. And I'm glad it does, because if it doesn't have to be perfect then it's something I can live in. I think there'll be space for me to stretch out and relax, and take my time getting used to the fact that I'm not going to die of starvation because I'm too poor to buy chicken for soup.

Eventually (read: now would be great, or maybe next week) I'll meet a really unusual and preferably very handsome fellow who will find me irresistible and charming and compellingly fiery, and then things will get very interesting.

For the first time in a very long time, I'm not just whistling in the dark about that. I feel it coming.