Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Perfect Time To Have Kids, No?

I'm considering a return to talk therapy, and holy christ, I was unprepared for how awkward that sentence would sound out loud: the verbal equivalent of that couple who walks around with their hands in each other's rear pants pockets, regardless of how impractical that may be when they're also, oh I don't know, trying to cross the street while making out and talking on a cell phone.

I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.

I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.

Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.

After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over several glasses cases of wine.) Regardless of this ridiculous time schedule, I find myself scanning the domestic "gigs" listed on Craigslist, searching for part-time cleaning jobs to make a little extra money because I have fifteen spare minutes every other Tuesday evening and I'll be damned if I spend that time enjoying myself. Plus, two people have told me I'm "crazy" since yesterday. Maybe I should look into that.

I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.