So, I’m in a bit of a quandary with some friends.
Well, okay, the issue is not between the friends and I, but rather, it’s my issues with my friends. You know the type (or rather, you will when I finish describing the type): you dread picking up the phone when they call because you know that for the next hour, they only thing they are going to do is talk about themselves and how great their life is and how many amazing things they have done. I know those are things that would annoying anybody, but it’s not that I even have issues with that.
No, my issues lie with my own failure to be impressed by all the wonderful things happening in my friends’ lives (I’m speaking in plural here, but it’s, uh, actually just one friend, but go with my on the intrigue of this, okay?). I find myself listening to the laundry list of accomplishments my friends boast about and thinking, “These things aren’t really that spectacular, but I am trying to be happy that they are happy about them, even if I don’t think selling your novel to an e-book publisher whose web site looks like it was created by a fourth-grader armed with free stock photos and MS Paint is something to be proud of.”
Spring has finally settled in Boston, which, in typical New England style, means schizophrenic shifts between almost 90-degree days and below-40 degree nights. Next week it will probably snow. However, there is one constant you can count on during spring even when all else fails: pollen attacking your face hard.
I can’t pretend this hasn’t been an odd, equally difficult week, for reasons entirely other than coworker conflict–mounting work expectations, several different people all asking you to do the impossible all at once, and getting angry at you when you tell them you are only human. But I don’t want to be the girl who blogs about how difficult her job is, because I am extremely grateful to even have a job that allows me to support myself in a very expensive city, and gives me a disposable income to boot. Let me not become that person.
Instead, let me complain about my insane downstairs neighbor who doesn’t want my roommate and I to use our kitchen after 9pm because our walking around makes too much noise.
Just kidding. Except not really. Our neighbor is actually that crazy.
It’s totally weird to realize how much you’ve grown emotionally as an adult.
For all my determination not to let the bastards grind me down, I am not one who enjoys confrontation, even necessary ones. I’m not the most emotionally in touch person and certainly not the most sensitive creature on the planet. There was a time when I would have let bridges completely burn down and simply cut my losses.
But I can’t afford to do that now, and, to my great surprise, nor do I even want to.