I'm annoyed. And I'm annoyed that I'm annoyed.
Here are the things that are annoying me:
- Unemployment (mine);
- The bathroom scale (also mine, and giving me some very negative feedback, mostly due to my current state of unemployment);
- The broken blood vessel in my right eye which is also drawing negative feedback, this time from my bathroom mirror. And small children;
- Spider Solitaire.
None of this, and I mean NONE of this, is important. My brain knows this. My heart knows this. My adrenal gland is another story.
Here is why I'm annoyed:
- I couldn't get a cup of coffee at Starbucks the other day. Even though there were five people "working" (sort of) behind the counter, I had to leave the line - which was moving in much the same way that one runs in a nightmare - to catch my train. Yes, I am aware that a substantial percentage of Starbucks customers are very silly people, and I usually factor this into my commuting time. But I thought 20 minutes was sufficient lead to get a simple cup of coffee. How very 20th Century of me;
- I am actually more annoyed with Bill Clinton than with Comcast. According to my husband, who is utterly fascinated by all things political, we can lay the blame for "globalization" squarely at Bill Clinton's feet. To a point. Of course, we all bought into it because, after all, we are the world. Right? Borders will be, one day soon, functionally impossible to secure. Seriously, is there anybody out there who is still mired in the us-and-them mentality? At least, anybody with all of their teeth? But where has globalization gotten us? Owning a lot of gadgets that don't work, and having heated discussions with some poor schmuck in India who, unwittingly, adds insult to our perceived injuries by adopting one of those awful flower child names from the '70s. And my high-def cable box still doesn't work;
- I'm unemployed. No, I'm not starving and am not in any danger of doing so, hence I should count myself lucky. Very lucky. Yet, I miss underemployment. I miss the routine, the sense of purpose, the money and benefits, the exercise built into extensive use of public transportation, the lack of opportunity to eat (see #4, below), and the feeling of superiority derived from working with morons. I have lost the real-time feedback I used to count on to assure me I was smart;
- I'm fat. Not shop-at-Lane-Bryant fat, but can't-fit-into-anything-cute-at-Zara's fat. Middle-aged, where'd-my-waistline-go, frumpy fat. I eat healthy food and exercise, so this is not fair. And the worst part is that I no longer have the bragging rights I used to have amongst my age mates. At least I think I used to have bragging rights amongst them. Maybe I didn't. Maybe it was the martinis;
- A blood vessel decided to spontaneously burst in my right eye which left me looking like I probably sleep in a coffin. It was just the beginning of a number of weird little health woes that visited upon me all in the same week. I also almost fainted while out on my "healthy" walk. No idea why. (Maybe I should eat more, but if I eat more...oh, the hell with it). And my ring finger doubled in size, for no apparent reason. Only my ring finger. So I can't wear my favorite little diamond ring (see previous post, The Bitch is Back). Actually, come to think of it (and given the circumstances of how I obtained said little diamond ring), I see now that I may be the victim of witchcraft. (Oh, yeah? Well, two can play at that game, dude);
- I have developed an unhealthy dependency on Spider Solitaire. For the uninitiated and/or mature adult, Spider Solitaire is that weird four-level game that comes with every Windows operating system since the beginning of time. It has become the symbol of the chaos in my life and I am spending far too much time battling that chaos by organizing the pretty, virtual cards into orderly rows, instead of doing anything that might genuinely mitigate the chaos. Needless to say, I play on level four, the most frustrating and the least likely to produce a victory. Otherwise, what would be the point? I rationalize this complete waste of time by imagining that I am somehow inoculating myself against a nervous breakdown.
Why would a healthy, well-educated, well-fed, well-shod, and easily entertained person be worried about having a nervous breakdown? No good reason in the whole-wide-first world, except that I'm a whiny, spoiled brat.
And if I hadn't scored two Armani Collezioni jackets at the thrift shop last week, things would be a lot worse.