Dear God. I need a husband or a job...

Life as I know it will end at 9 am tomorrow.

I’m wound up tighter than the elastic that’s holding my hair back. I’ve got cramps in my left foot, my right calf and both shoulders. My right eye-lid is twitching every few seconds. My throat is scratchy, my nails are completely bitten away, and the scabs on my chin are flaking off. I wore my new shoes tonight and now my feet are throbbing.

My new job starts tomorrow. Yes, I know, it’s a gift from God job, but still…

Something’s gonna havta give. I can’t simply add a job to the mix and assume all will be well. Approximately 7 hours (considering travel, traffic and extra getting-dressed minutes) of previous “free” time will be absorbed by my new position. I will have to eliminate some activities from my life. Which ones? What sacrifices will have to be made?

My blog? Will I find time for that? I like to post after the kids have gone to bed, when the house is quiet and I can think. Remember. Reflect.
Photography? Will I still be able to go for walks with my camera?
Reading for pleasure? I’ve got a stack of books I’m dying to dig into.
Writing for pleasure? My writer’s group? Can I still get together with them? Will I have anything to contribute?
Crafting nights? Shudder. Maybe I’ll have to buy Christmas Cards from Hallmark this year?
Coffee with friends? Will I ever see anyone anymore?
Sleep?


Now I’ll have to maintain my wardrobe. Pre-plan my daily clothing options.
Prepare a lunch for myself, suitable to eat in the office lunchroom.
Look into additional training; possibly take a night school course or two.
Set aside time for detailed personal grooming. Probably cut off my ponytail and work on acquiring a more professional look.


I feel like I did in August 1994. I was pregnant with my third child, and knew what to expect. Yes, yes, yes, it was all nice and good… uh huh… another baby… goochie goochie goo…
But all I could see ahead of me were all the things I would not be able to do for at least a year or two. My life would not be my own; I would have to dance to the music being played in child # 3’s head. His needs would come first.

Yes, the job is a good thing. It’ll be the catalyst that will bring about some (much needed?) changes in my life. But, while I'm on the steep learning curve, the job will come first.

And while I’m sooo thankful for it’s perfectness… I’ve got a sick feeling in my stomach. Sorta like what “cold feet” might feel like on a wedding day.

Ooops. It's 11:00pm. Time for bed.
(Oy. I hated mornings before. I can't imagine how tense things are going to be around here in 8 hours, when I have to get ready too.)

"Thank you God, for the job. Thank you. A husband probably wouldn't have been a good idea...Can I ask for one more thing? Please... Could Clint get up on time tomorrow? And be ready to go? With no anger or sarcasm? Could he not be mean? Can You make him nice? Or does that fall under the 'freedom of choice' clause, and Your hands are tied on that one? How about this? Can You help me handle mornings better? Oh and can You help me not screw up at my job? I'm all worked up. Nervous. Kinda scared. Feeling inadequate. Unworthy. Can You hold my hand as I walk in? Maybe sit beside me?"

Breathe in.
Pause.
Breathe out.
Pause.