March promises to be a stressful month. Even the tarot cards are in on the action, and to top it all off, the to-do list involves Leaving the House when really I want to be stress-procrastinating with a trunk novel.
And watching the final duet from Eugene Onegin on repeat, because apparently something in it is scratching the Muse hard enough to draw blood. I kind of want Eugene to go off to the wars and come back to find Gremin dead and Tatiana free.
…I am a hopeless, hopeless romantic. There, my secret is out. It’s known.
I suppose one can’t survive in this industry without being one. The eternal Gatsby-esque optimism of “maybe that’s Daisy calling now” can pick one up off the floor numerous times, bruised and battered but still smiling.
Of course, sheer spite works better for me. You think I can’t do this? Well, to hell with you, I’m going to SHOW I can. Spite takes over when optimism fails.
The optimism is nice while it lasts, though. It’s a gentler fuel than spite, and I like it better.
I have a run scheduled today to burn off the cortisol and other stress hormones. Boxnoggin will be more than happy to accommodate, I suspect; he’s prancing around my office trying to interest Miss B in a morning game of grab-n-growl. Miss B is having very little of it, but of course that’s part of the game, too.
So. The Leap Year is over, spring is here, things are changing. I’m in the position of having to activate some parts of my personal support net, which is anxiety-making. I feel great giving help, but asking for it so fraught because I was raised and trained to serve others, not to worry about things like my own needs. Maybe I can get through this by reminding myself it’s good therapy, and that my support net is full of people who will be thrilled to be of help the way I am when they reach out.
It’s selfish of me to keep the good feeling of helping someone else solely for my own gratification. And, true to form, the Universe is applying that lesson with a cosmic 2×4.
I know it’s the only way it’ll get through my thick skull, so I can’t blame the teacher. But still, ow.
Anyway, hang on to your tights, my friends. Things do seem to be moving and shaking this spring.
Over and out.