A jackass once said, “This is a marathon, not a sprint.” These words can easily be applied to my job search, and that’s unfortunate. I’d like the sentiment a whole lot more if it went, “This is a sprint, not a marathon.” At least then I’d know I’m close to the finish line.
Less than two weeks into this thing, I’m showing signs of wear. The eczema on my finger has flared up again, and I’m half-certain it will develop into something sinister by sundown. Then there are my sleeping patterns, which have gone haywire. I’m tired during the day because my fretful mind prevents me from falling asleep at night. The upshot is, I’m lurching forward like an eczema-riddled zombie from Night of the Living Dead.
On the bright side, at least I’m not Fluffy, who has been hiding under a chair in our living room since last night. I know his whereabouts only because he doesn’t quite fit under there; his considerable rear end is sticking out. At one point this morning, I’m convinced he has expired. I poke him repeatedly, but he doesn’t move. Finally, he musters a faint growl.
Later in the day, he’s still hiding, stirring only to devour a plate of food I've slid under the chair. I call the vet, who doesn’t seem to want him back and assures me that he’s probably just in a snit. Sure enough, he comes out around bedtime.
But enough about Fluffy—this blog is supposed to center on my travails, not his. Back to my cliché on marathons. Yes, I’m in need of a second wind, but I’m by no means ready to drop. I think of something the great Bob Marley said between hits off his doobie: “Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind.”
In other words, just keep running. You’ll get there someday.
I want to hear more about Fluffy. Her story goes well with your own. Great stuff, Wags.
ReplyDeleteClassic, Al. Except Fluffy's a he. He'd come after you with guns a-blazin' if he knew you'd called his manhood into question.
ReplyDelete