Good grief I am stressed. Every one is. Pandemics are officially awful. Trying to work from home while also caring for the household and parenting — all at once — all the time is exhausting. Top it off with some chronic pain and it’s death from 1,000 paper cuts. I can’t seem to get five minutes of peace. I’m desperately scrambling for perspective. I’m trying hard to stay kind and caring and not get snippy, but all I want deep in my soul is for everyone to leave me alone. Not forever, but just for a few days at least.

I’ve been trying to breathe deeply and meditate(ish) here and there, but I can’t find the time to do it right. The dryer beeped a few minutes ago to tell me that it’s time to fold and hang the laundry before it wrinkles, but I don’t dare move from my desk since the puppy is finally sleeping and the kid is happily eating leftover pizza and watching a movie. I don’t dare disturb this rare moment of relative quiet. I should be working during this window of calm, but somehow just can’t find the will or the focus. So I am writing. I used to write all the time and found it helpful for centering and calming my mind, but I rarely do it anymore. I need to. I need to for everyone’s sake. I’m no good when I am grumpy and unfocused. I’m positive my stress is seeping out and spreading to anyone that is unfortunate enough to be stuck near me. Sorry kiddo. I really do love you, even though you probably can’t tell right now.

Typically I tend to excel at things I put my mind to, but lately I can’t put my mind to much, so I am simply being bad at everything. I am a bad employee. I am a bad stepmom. I am a bad housekeeper. I am a bad wife.

I keep trying to remind myself that all of this is temporary. As long as everyone is fed and safe, I’m doing ok. Everything does not need to be perfect. And that right there is fighting my very nature.

Oh!

See, I do need to force time to write more often. There is it in the sentences above…I am fighting my perfectionist nature. This isn’t some new battle for me. I’m only trying to be perfect at too many things at once right now. I’ve been killing myself for perfection my whole life. I don’t know why. My rational mind knows that perfection isn’t really possible anyway. The harder I try the more I fail.

That reminds me of when I was working full time and going to college. I was tearing myself up trying to make the President’s List every semester. One semester I decided that I had just about enough of my own bullshit and made a conscious decision to “phone it in” so to speak. I ended up with the same GPA at the end of the semester. All that worry and stress wasn’t improving things for me, so why do I keep doing this to myself?

This is what I need to know and always remember: I am good enough just the way I am. I don’t need to be perfect, because even when I “phone it in,” things turn out pretty good.

I’ll end on a more positive note, my gratitude practice. I am grateful for my incredibly loving and honorable husband. I am grateful that my stepson is really a good kid. I am grateful for my job and my boss, who has been so supportive and flexible during this pandemic madness. I have a lovely home, sweet cats, and an adorable and ridiculously smart puppy. My bills are paid and my pantry is full.

Damn. I really need to write more. I’m going to leave this fully unedited. The stream of thought is informative.

As I rest today, listening to the wind and the rain of Hurricane Matthew, I cannot help but be reminded of home. The storm is gentle though and far less intense than the afternoon ragers of Florida fame.

I do miss the storms. I miss the lightning and the ferocity. I miss a few other things too (like Bosphorus, strolling Park Ave, my closest friends, my nugget, and the sheer volume of potential found in a city). But this little place holds magic for me. It draws me in, holds me close, and whispers in my ear that everything is alright. It was love at first sight. In fact, my Wilmington song is Depeche Mode’s Nothing’s Impossible. I was listening to the song as I rolled into town in August and it struck me as perfect for the time and place that I exist in right now.

I was a bit worried that I was suffering from a severe case of ‘grass is greener’ syndrome when I moved, and that I would find myself with the same old issues in a different place. I am unbelievably relieved to report that such was not the case. To be oh so cliché, my life has made a 180 degree turn. I feel woken. I’m shaking off the creeping death that stalked me for the past 15 years. Perhaps I needed to put some distance between myself and the pain I carried in my soul. There were reminders everywhere I went. Reminders of school pressures. Reminders of lost friends. Reminders of old hurts. Reminders of too much work and no play. And I felt like everywhere I went, I was Dave’s ex. Here I am just me. More me than I have been in ages.

Old love interests have been rekindled. I am diving deep into music again, and my hands are itching to plunge into clay and paint. I enjoy little things here, like how the air feels on my skin. I no longer feel like I am struggling to find something. I don’t feel like I need anything at all. I am content.

All that social anxiety that I had allowed to build up has vanished as well. The people here are warm and inviting, and I have opened up and stepped out of my head in a way that I didn’t think was possible anymore. I enjoy being out among the living and don’t hermit all the damn time. I’ve made friends with ease and seem to connect better with everyone I come across. And after three years of zero dating luck in Orlando, I have been on several dates and found someone I enjoy spending my time with.

I love the historic downtown and the Cape Fear river. There are great little shops full of old and funky stuff everywhere. The beach is close and the parks are lovely. If this place had mountains it would be perfect, but it is close enough that I know I can get away whenever I want.

I am embracing my new home and enjoying the exploration of my surroundings. More importantly, I am enjoying the rediscovery of myself. I forgot that I like me.

It’s almost here. In a few days I will be halfway dead. The average US life expectancy is 78.74 years, and this broad is rollin’ up on 40.

I recently graduated college, which is compounding my crisis, as many find a lingering emptiness following the end of school. College was my single-minded life focus for many years, and until I find a new career, there is nothing to fill that gap in mission. I am adrift.

My job hunt has not gone as well as I anticipated. I’m not sure what is wrong with the people that do the hiring, as I am an awesome employee and anyone should be happy to have me. I work hard, I am flexible, reliable, and there is little that I can’t do well. It’s not that I am smarter than most people, but I have an unrelenting tenacity to excel at anything I decide to do. I am a machine (a strange term of endearment that a former boss introduced me to). I always give my all, and I do it without being an asshole. But I digress. Back to my midlife crisis.

I’ve lived in Central Florida most of my life. I moved here when I was nine years old, and other than a brief stint in Savannah, this is where I stayed. The thing that is so strange about this area is how transient it is. I suppose places like New York are similar, but it seems more expected in a massive metropolis. Anyhow, many of my closest friends, and even my acquaintances, have moved away. They are spread to the winds, from coast to coast, and in some cases beyond. Of those that remain, many are tied up with their own busy lives (jobs, spouses, kids, you name it). I, on the other hand, don’t even have a boyfriend. (I am finding the middle aged dating scene to be, errr…disappointing.) To top it off, quite a few of my remaining Florida friends also talk of leaving the state.

Between the dismal state of my social life and the lack of job opportunities in the area, I have been considering a move for some time. It is an idea that has been rolling around in my head quite actively for over a year now. While I do like my house very much (and the mortgage payment), there are so many things that I don’t like about where I live. I made a list:

• I have to drive EVERYWHERE (and it usually means being stuck in traffic for at least 15 minutes, often 45+).
• There are very few open positions in the career fields I want to work in.
• Too many low wage jobs and high unemployment in the area, which brings everything down.
• Most of the people I have bonds with are already gone, and I rarely see the rest.
• Much of the entertainment in the area is geared toward tourists, and is therefore expensive.
• The cost of living is great – except when you factor in the terrible wages.
• Every time I travel to other parts of the country (or even other parts of this state), people are nicer. Orlando folks have too much attitude, and I am tired of it.
• The high dew point and high humidity make for SO MANY BAD HAIR DAYS.
• The water is really hard, which sucks for my hair and skin. I am a delicate flower.
• Transit options are terrible – so no affordable and safe way to meet up for beers with pals.
• Finally, I am just bored with it. It’s old and stagnant for me.

So here is my midlife crisis plan: sell my beautiful and totally affordable home in Florida, and launch myself somewhere, completely alone and saddled with student loan debt. While it sounds horrifying, in many ways I am eager for an adventure. Plus, I have some equity in my home that should help serve as a cushion while I get my footing once again and find a nice gig somewhere. Maybe I will make some new friends, and possibly find a boyfriend. Who knows?

I look forward to getting out and exploring a new place. I have been stagnant for far too long, and it has affected my physical and mental health in damaging ways.

My Wishlist for a New Land:

• Good jobs (duh)
• Near mountains or river (or both!).
• Nature trails and parklands.
• A craft brewery or two is nice (but not required).
• Little to no snow (especially if less walkable).
• Historic preservation in the community.
• Cost of living not too out of control (I’m looking at you DC).
• Relatively safe and clean(ish).
• Good restaurants (not just chains, for the love of all things tasty).
• A Trader Joe’s would be nice (also not required).
• A Fiat dealership, since I have a lifetime warranty on my car and that puppy is paid off.
• A little funkiness is appreciated. An arts scene, good nightlife venues (not “clubs” but low-key hangouts), museums, festivals. You know, some blood running through the old veins.

I’ve looked into many areas and several have piqued my interest. At this point, I am leaving my landing zone to the job hunting fates, but I have a few favored spots in mind (Wilmington, NC is at the top). Most of these spots are in close driving range to Myrtle Beach, where my mother is planning to move. She is, essentially, my only family, so I would like to remain somewhat geographically close.

May the job hunting odds be ever in my favor.

A few short days ago I was doing as I often do, wasting time on Twitter, a favorite pastime of mine. As usual, I learned about major news on Twitter before it hit my other social media accounts or news stations. I learned about the terrorist attacks in Paris. The news breaks my heart a little each and every day, but on this day, this particular news stung a bit harder than most. It gave me the same eerie feeling I had when watching the second plane fly into the Twin Towers. I don’t think the news struck me harder because the victims were European and perhaps on some level I simply care less for those that live in the Middle East. That is simplistic thinking. I care very much about people living in the Middle East. But this attack did not take place in an area embattled by war. This took place during typical Friday night festivities of everyday Western life, my life. Going out to dinner, to see a game, or watch a concert, are all activities that happen with regularity outside of a war zone.

I combed social media for more information. I could not look away.

On Instagram I found the accounts two people that checked in at the concert venue that was attacked, The Bataclan. I immediately followed the accounts for word of what happened to these people, just out for a fun evening, who were thrown headfirst without warning into war. It was such a relief when the first person checked in and posted to Instagram that she was safe, I eagerly anticipated a similar notice from the other account. The second Instagram account had a lovely picture of a man and a woman, whose names I soon learned, Gilles Leclerc and Marianne. Through the comments I was pointed to a Twitter account of a family friend (I think), who was posting updates about the two. It was not terribly long before we were updated that Marianne had been located and was safe. She was reported to be in shock and had no memory of the attack. I sincerely hope that she never has to relive the horror of that night. No word on the young man. I checked in on Twitter and Instagram every hour or two for days, waiting for news. I somehow, like many people, felt instant connection with this young couple. Thousands posted on social media about this unusual connection we all felt, all of us holding out hope that the young man would be found safe. Perhaps he was among the wounded that had yet to be named by overrun hospitals? I learned about where he worked. I looked at his Instagram photos. Social media accounts shared pictures of his impressive tattoos. With each passing hour I worried more that the news would be bad. Unfortunately, that instinct was correct. On Monday afternoon I learned through the Twitter account of the family friend that it was confirmed that Gilles was among the dead. It hit me harder than I anticipated. A total stranger, half a world away, and yet his death brought me to tears.

This demonstrates the power of social media and of photography. Seeing each others everyday lives connects us. Though these media we see how alike we all are and it connects us in ways I never imaged it would. It feels intimate, which is jarring and surreal, but also welcome. The attacks in the U.S. on September 11^th 2001 took place before we had Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I find myself wondering what it would have been like if social media was prevalent during 9/11.

The single photograph Gilles Leclerc posted to Instagram that terrible evening brought people from all over the world together. We hoped together. We mourn together.

Rest in peace, Gilles Leclerc, a stranger from half a world away.

The weight of the ole jobby-job, running a house, managing insane levels of allergies, and college finally took its toll. I achieved burnout! Which helps explain my absence from this silly blog.

But fear for me not. The light at the end of the college tunnel is starting to glimmer. Provided nothing tragic happens, I will be donning a cap at the end of this year. And, because I am now a full- fledged lunatic, I left my stable job to work for … family (gasp!). So, long story short – I have not forgotten about this place (despite my lack of posts), and I am very much looking forward to a return to writing for me, myself, and I.

In the mean time, if you have stumbled here, please feel free to read the whole four posts before this! They’re terrible. You’re welcome!

Looking at the big picture, I mean the REALLY BIG picture, my life is so stupendously meaningless that it is comic, and that is a beautiful thing.

Before you poo poo what I am saying, please hear me out.

I love outer space. I turn to the cosmos to find beauty and perspective. Space is vast and daunting and exhilarating (and a whole mess of other adjectives, but hey…this is a drunken post). Looking beyond what I can see with my own eyes brings everything into sharp focus. I find a strange peace knowing that one day our violent and brilliant sun will one day spend its fuel and die. Knowing that Andromeda is rushing through space on a collision course with our own galaxy is oddly calming.

Everything must end. I will end. You will end. All of humanity will end (one way or another, since we may beat space to the punch). So in the end, none of us matter. I know. I know these events are so far off that it will not affect any of us personally. The sun has a long way to go and Andromeda is nowhere near us. But considering the long game as a species, well… we are nothing. We are dust. It sounds terrible, doesn’t it?

It gets better. Knowing that an asteroid could tumble our way and wipe out life on Earth as we know it, anytime, is where I find strength. I embrace the pointlessness of my existence. It is liberating.

Life itself is weird and improbable (out of all possible outcomes are we sentient, and that is mind-boggling). It is a bizarre gift that can be lost in a moment. Embracing the absurd pointlessness of me allows me to enjoy my time on my terms. Does it really matter if I make a fool out of myself or say something stupid? Nope. Not really. Does it really matter if I am a hedonist or a puritan? Nope again. My life. My terms.

Yes, I still live in society and face some cultural constraints, like having to work for a living and not shooting people in traffic, but I am free of the petty things. I can live by my own ideals and enjoy the things that I enjoy without fear of judgment. I will not be afraid of taking chances. I will not be afraid of being hurt.

I might still be afraid of physical pain and roller coasters, but hey, there is not a whole lot I can do about my hyperactive central nervous system.

So I lift my glass to you and say cheers! Enjoy the shit out of every moment you possibly can. When in the end everything means nothing, what is the point in holding yourself back? Go for it. Ask that girl or guy out. Get drunk and laugh with friends. Admit when you are wrong and accept that you are deeply flawed (and probably irrational). Take corners fast. Run. Jump. Dance. Read. Do things you truly enjoy. Explore everything. If someone rejects you or you get laughed at…it doesn’t really matter anyway. You don’t really need unenlightened people around you anyhow. Fuck em.

Another older essay. I’ve had a change of heart since I wrote it and now have two cats that I share my home with. They are a source of joy for me, but they still don’t replace my beloved Morph.

For seventeen years I had a cat. His name was Morpheous and he was born in April of 1994, a tiny ball of black fuzz who could sit in the palm of my hand. Actually, his first name was Lucy-Furr, but after Lucy lived with me for a week I noticed that she had balls. A name change was definitely in order! At that point in my life I was reading Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comic book series, whose main character is named Morpheus, the lord of the realm of dreams. So Morpheus seemed like an appropriate name for a creature that liked to sleep as much as my cat did, except that I spelled it with an extra letter, an o, and the misspelling stuck.

Morpheous was an obnoxious kitten. He liked to climb up things and meow loudly until someone would rescue him. The most irritating thing about this behavior is that upon rescue he would immediately climb back up again to begin the process all over. You had no choice but to get him down again, eventually. He would outlast you. I promise. I wanted to pop his little head off. I’m pretty sure the reason that infant creatures are so cute is to ensure their survival.

All cats seem to have annoying litterbox habits; such is the nature of the bathroom and, well, any living creature. Morpheous’s special brand of litterbox mayhem included pooping over the edge of the box and scattering litter throughout the entire house. I ended up buying an enclosed box that handily nipped the edge pooping in the bud (kind of punny, in a sick way). The litter scattering, I’m afraid to report, defied every trick and trap that I created to stem the crunchy tide. In the end, I gave into compulsive vacuuming. This served as a tiny bit of revenge, since the vacuum scared the bejesus out of my cat.

Sleeping in, a hobby that once occupied vast amounts of my free time, became a thing of the past. Morpheous liked to eat breakfast, even though I would rather wait until brunch at the earliest. He ordered his meal by standing on my chest and yowling into my face. If the noise did not alert me, his breath would surely do the trick. Sometimes I could delay the drudgery of crawling out of bed to feed the little shit by throwing my pillows at him. But even that only worked as a snooze button at best, since I quickly ran out of pillows. If I was in a particularly foul mood, I would get up to retrieve the pillows, climb back in bed, and start over out of spite.

Despite the years of madness, and in later years enduring his senility, I find myself missing the warmth and weight of his body on my head at night. Morpheous was an unusually loyal cat, and would greet me at the door. We enjoyed curling up together on the sofa while catching a movie or reading a book in the evening. When I was sick, he would stay by my side all day. Morpheous seemed to know when I was hurt or sad, and his purring always calmed me down.

I would be happy to endure the kitty litter and obnoxious behavior if I could have him back. You see, he died about a year ago. It was kidney failure, which I hear is pretty common for old-ass cats. Most people decide to get a new pet after a while, but I just can’t. I know that I will never find another cat that will irritate and delight me in exactly the same way ever again. And that makes me really sad. Stupid @#&$! cat.