I always thought of myself as a patient person, willing to wait a long time for people to act or for conditions to develop. I've even been called patient as a vague insult. (Like the time I waited an hour or more for someone who was supposed to interview me for a job, who either got wrapped up in other work, or just blew me off because they forgot I was on their schedule--I heard some employee whisper loudly to another that, boy, I was patient, and they made it sound like it was really a disparaging synonym for desperate. They weren't wrong. I was four months pregnant, and had just been laid off from my publishing job, and I didn't know where rent money was going to come from. I didn't have the ability to walk away. Not that it mattered. The interview never happened and they sent me home.) For all that I have tried to be patient, mostly over things I can't control, I feel like I'm running out of juice, and I don't think I have the wherewithal to make more. I have been waiting for too long for things that are taking unreasonable amounts of time to accomplish, plus a couple that may never be, no matter how much I want them to come true someday.
We got an email from the reconstruction crew for the condos today. They say there is progress happening on our building, but I am a little concerned trying to figure out who is making the calls for the finishes. I know I have specified white, shaker-style cabinets, and I had to do the legwork myself to source dark bamboo flooring. I kept hearing about a "showroom" that was supposed to be set up, for choices for the finishes, but I have yet to see any photos, web links, or emails asking me what sort of tile or countertops I want. My daughter keeps trying to walk down to where they said this mythical showroom would be set up, but she has yet to find a human to let her see construction materials. Thirteen months into this process, and we are still waiting, still hearing about delays in the insurance payouts. I hate this more than I can possibly express.
While I was deep cleaning the piano room, to the point of vacuuming the underside of the rug, and treating my antiques to a little moisturizer, I gave my mind free rein to wander (like you do). I started counting, and realized that in just the last year, I have put myself out five times for paying jobs that I truly believed were going to happen, and each and every one fell through. I'm feeling remarkably demoralized at this point. I'm a smart kid. I'm a hard worker. I throw my heart and soul into the jobs I have, when I have them. But I'm also feeling unlucky and unloved. To be honest, by the time I really let it work into my brain, I felt unlovable. It's not a happy place to find oneself. Am I really such a hard sell that no one is willing to take a risk on me? After so many years of this, I have to think yes. And I'm about to the point of giving it all up.
I took a couple days off of it, but I'm back to reading more of the newest Wheat Belly book, where I'm drawing inspiration to go completely grain free, not just gluten free. I am almost there, but after tweaking a few of the supplements I felt like I was being told I needed, I'm wondering what is wrong with me now. I thought I was free of the miserable bloating that used to consume me for decades, but it is back. I don't know what's getting me, the probiotics, switching from a gummy to a fish oil based vitamin D, or the restriction in the diet itself. I'm not losing an ounce, unlike 99% of the people who go gluten free. And that is bringing my patience to the very end. I did a very bad thing tonight. I stopped at a gas station and bought a red-labeled bottle of nastiness, and mixed it with one of my old friends from college. It didn't make me feel any more patient, but it felt kind of good to act out for once. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a good attitude. Tonight, I'm fresh out.
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