I have been inordinately busy these past few days. I have heaps of copies of my resume and transcripts. (I’m trying not to be an ass and remark that I have three separate transcripts because I have three different degrees. But I do. ) I’ve had two job interviews, both went fairly well. I know which one I would prefer, but I’m not going to jinx it by mentioning it. The divorce proceedings are, well, proceeding. I have the bits and pieces of the costumes and props for my performance on Thursday. I have portfolios assembled for a job fair tomorrow.
My house is a pit.
Every inch of space has some sort of “hire me” detritus on it or florist’s wire and/or make-up and leaves (I’ll explain later.)
I am barely managing to feed myself.
I have been very distracted, so much so that I became horribly concerned that I had dropped a brand new package of cheese slices somewhere in the house. I couldn’t find them where they belonged, in the cheese hole in the fridge, so I automatically assumed they were in the hamper or under the sink or possibly tucked in neatly next to a Fabricated American. Any of these are likely scenarios. I began a silent litany of self-doubt. (I could have said it out loud, but frankly, Samantha is tired of hearing it.)
I beat myself up about being so tired and distracted. I feel that I performing below my potential. I should be able to stay focused and multitask and really give it my all.
But then I remember, I can’t do that. The universe gave me a huge trade-off; “You can either have life or endurance.”
I got very lucky 11 years ago. I can’t have that and locate my cheese, too.
(It was in the fridge, behind the lunchmeat. I think it was giggling.)