So, I just booked a beach-front condo. Mr. eHarmony and I are taking a fabulous long weekend in just 16 short days.
So, why do I feel like this?
I’m grouchy. Work is pissing me off for no good reason. Foxie Doxie rolls in something disgusting every single damn night, and so help me god, I don’t want to give him a bath every 24 hours. It’s too damn hot here to breathe. And, to add insult to injury … I am almost out of roasted garlic Triscuits.
Today, I wrote a colleague that my frustration was finally exceeding my saint-like patience and that he should picture Mother Teresa, but with my face Photoshopped over hers.
I hope he knows I was kidding. Sort of.
I’m coming to the painful conclusion that there is no such thing as a slower time in my job. There’s busy and superbusy.
That’s ok. The hitch is that I need to decide for once and for all whether or not I’m going to let superbusy devour my soul. Or, if I’m going to own that I can be happy no matter what – even if it means giving up the self-serving fits of Grinchdom.
I do think that I’m way mellower about the entire thing that I was even a few months ago. I’m all growing and shit. But completely letting go of any pretense that I have control or that work is in any way the important part of my existence? Scaaaaaary.
Is it ok to start tomorrow? Will there be roasted garlic Triscuits?