Someone Please Call 911

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent too much time listening to Little Sister’s teenager voice, or maybe it’s because of the inordinate amount of trash I am wont to read when there is nothing more productive I feel compelled to do, but lately I find myself saying one phrase repeatedly: I’m over (fill in the blank).

For example:
“Hey, Christina! How’s the painting going?”
“Ugh, I’m so over it.”
“How’s school going?”
“I have another story due, and I’m so over it.”
“How are things with The Boy?”
“Well, I’m kinda….”

Just kidding on that one. But I’m not kidding that my lack of enthusiasm has extended so far as to reach my beloved life teammate. I found myself comforting a friend by reminding her that we all get scared, no matter our station in life. First, for example and for many, the prospect of lifelong singleness may keep them tossing and turning. I, for one, had that fear and did not think for a second that it was irrational. (Well, it wasn’t just that. I thought I’d probably get married, but that I’d end up marrying someone I wasn’t attracted to.) Anyway, regardless, that was a fear. Now, here I am, mired in premaritalness, and the thought of marriage is sometimes daunting. But, of course, that’s not how I put it; I said I was scared to get married.

A few days later, said dear friend approached me nervously: “You know when you said you were scared to get married? Uhh, that’s just normal stuff, right?” And she was right to wonder and right to check, but apparently my words have been betraying me. Once again, it would seem, it is time for an attitude adjustment. Anyone know a good mood chiropractor? Aetna doesn’t accept mine.

I hesitate to say that we are fresh, but here we are, still standing, after New England came to town. People were just everywhere. Visits with those guys are always nice, but they leave me feeling like a grandma or Nanny from the Muppet Babies (you know, minus the striped stockings. Because, really.). I just walk around behind the boys, picking things up, cooking meals, dolling out Excedrin. I am younger than everyone who visited, but after they left, I just felt so old. I would say I just can’t do it anymore, but I don’t think I really ever could.

Despite my rapid aging, the weekend was fun, and most of the house got painted. There is just trim work left, except for in the bathroom. I attempted to face off with the wallpaper on Saturday, despite being told repeatedly that we had neglected to buy the proper tool. I got about a four and a half by two foot strip finished. It took me at least an hour. I feel like that bathroom will never be done.

The Boy’s movers are coming tomorrow, and he is a headcase. Despite my repeated attempts towarn him that two evenings of packing after a weekend of familial company was not realistic, voilà. I know it will get done, but I’m not looking forward to learning how. The scariest words I’ve heard lately? “Babe, the only thing left is the kitchen, and you said you would help with that, so really that’s not a lot at all.” Show of hands, who knows this statement is not at all true?

Another story due tonight, and it is my first workshop with these people. I’ve procrastinated writing it until today, because I’m not thrilled with the notes I took. Much like when dear Tara (The Fan) ceases the telling of her own story because she loses interest, I feel that I cannot successfully sell my writing if I don’t believe it’s worth buying. And I don’t have high hopes for this one.

Enough, is there a doctor in the house? I tried to tell you, these alignment issues are really pervasive.