This morning I had coffee and, eventually, lunch with some former co-workers. It was probably the best thing I’ll do all week. I feel like I should pay them all whatever the going rate for a therapist is. Three of our group of five are still unemployed and looking for work.
“I freak out about one week a month,” I told them. “I’m like the National Guard of neurosis.”
“It’s the mortgage isn’t it?” Jayto, my former boss, asked.
I nodded my head and pointed at her. “YES! Every time I have to pay it, I lose my shit and think oh my god I am going to be homeless.”
“That mortgage check gets me too.”
I feel jelly-muscled with relief. I cannot put into words how good it was to hear they are in the same boat, dealing with the same frustrations, and noticing that everyone who is hiring wants to pay like $4.75 an hour. Sad. The best part though was hearing myself talk about what I’m actually doing, and I am doing stuff. Somehow I seem to forget that though I am not traditionally-employed and I often spend a lot of time unshowered and not wearing a bra, that I am a productive member of society. The reminder was great, almost as good as the blazing noodled from Pei-Wei.