As of this last Saturday, I'm closer to 30 than 29. Can we have a moment of silence? . . .
I'm not freaked out. Possibly because at this point, if 40 is the new 20, then 3o must be the new, what, 12? Possibly because instead of moving forward in a grownup manner, I'm regressing.
Regressing, you ask? (I think I heard you ask. If you didn't ask, please take into account that I've taught myself a full semester's worth of C++ since getting back from New York - mostly today - and am writing this with three glasses of wine in my belly. It's not so much that I'm hearing voices as it is that I'm going batshit insane.) Yes, regressing.
Two weeks ago, I had a full time job - nay, CAREER - with vacation and business cards and an office that had a Starbucks. I came home at night and watched TV, went out with Crockett, and whiled away the hours by deciding what to do with my disposable income*.
Basically? I was one fancy ass motherfucker.
Also? Not a happy girl. I mean, happy-ish. Having Crockett around elevates things by about 25%, the puppies give me another 25% each, so really I was 25% miserable - but if you can do something about the one quarter of you that's miserable, why not? As my mother and I decided several years ago, what the hell is always the right decision.
So NOW... I'm a graduate student, I'm trying to start a consulting business (consulting on something I do well, admittedly, but still kind of a pain in the ass), and I'm going to be waiting tables to bridge the gap between the two. I still have my townhouse .... is paying off a loan with a loan a bad idea? I'll fill that under things to consider tomorrow... and my car, and my girls and boy and furniture and etc and etc.
Also? I'm still excited. I'm facing 5 or 6 service shifts a week, but it's working for AMAZING people in the town I love, and it's within walking distance of Crockett's house, so obviously he'll be there all the time. Like, every hour of every one of my shifts. (Dear Crockett: I know that may be asking too much. A half an hour buffer on either end will totally be allowed.) I'm learning my very first programing language ever, alone, under a ridiculous deadline, but it's actually kind of fun (except when the editor misses a question mark IN a sample program. Like a note from the editor saying 'author: what was supposed to go here? the program doesn't seem to be working'. Yes, author of the book that's going to save my grad school ass, the program doesn't seem to be working.)
Let's recap: cranky mid-level manager to happy table-waiting student.
I'm DEFINITELY not getting older. Someone should bottle me and sell me for a million dollars, because I'm going backwards.