The last few weeks at work have made me feel brutalized. My job is not particularly difficult, really, I mean, basically I do simple math for a living, but sometimes it can be intense. Especially around month end, which, for us, was yesterday. (Our month-end is 4 business days before the end of the month, the cut-off date for refinances to be closed, so they can fund by the end of the calendar month – recissionary transactions are so much fun.), and while the people I work with are great, I feel trapped by the work part of work right now.
It’s probably got a lot to do with my impending birthday. Sky would say – has said – that Mercury being in retrograde is a contributing factor. What I know is, by the time I went home yesterday, I’d already worked 33 hours, and since I already have Monday the 31st off to recover from Blogathon (you can still pledge, btw) and was literally in tears in the car on the way home this past Monday, I asked for today and tomorrow as well, taking one as a vacation day, and the other instead of the overtime I’d earned this week. And so I am here in bed, reclining against pillows at 11:18 in the morning, groggy because even though I was up yesterday at FIVE, I was in that wired stage where I get too tired to sleep and didn’t go to bed til four (practice for the Thon maybe?), with Zorro draped on my ankle and Miss Cleo sleeping on Fuzzy’s pillow.
Fuzzy is in Florida.
I miss him. The bed is too big, and the dogs are faintly agitated, and my routine is disrupted. I like exploring new things, but I like the comfort of a routine as well.
I’m trying to decide if I should do anything productive today, or truly just rest. Does filling the pool count as productive? The pool guy lectured me on the low water level via door-hanger. I’ve got a stack of videos, but it seems criminal to waste a day watching movies. I should write. But I’m afraid to write. I’m afraid it’ll just make Tuesday, which I’m already dreading, even WORSE.
I should have been independently wealthy.
Or less in love with froufrou things.
I’m three weeks away from my 36th birthday, and I still have no clue what I want to be when I grow up.
I know what you mean about loving change, but sleeping without a human is an adjustment. Could it be made into an excuse for a hen party?
When you grow up? You already are a good something, and all kinds of roles to all kinds of people, (2-legged and 4-legged people).
Write anyway! charge! :-)
I truly don’t think we ever grow up.