Tuesday, November 8, 2011

November 8th

I was having such a good morning. I got up at six thirty, feeling all smug and pleased with myself, despite the fact that it was the time change and not my industry that got me there, and stood outside on the front step and watched the sun rise.

It was lovely. There were tiny swallows flying and darting about in the ragged, golden trees to my left and the clouds above were pink and gold and white and grey. I wondered why some of the clouds never took on any color. Also, I stood there barefoot- that's how mild it is out here.

Then I went inside and the house smelled richly of coffee and was warm and quiet. I settled down at my desk and proceeded with the day. Everything was going swimmingly until I logged on to check my credit card balance.

Now, I knew that there had been some additional purchases in the last week or so- they weren't any surprise to me. However, it does seem clear that in this area, my deficiencies in math are to my distinct disadvantage, for I clearly do not add up the total correctly in advance.

I stared at the amount with disbelief and horror and growing anger. Feeling the anger taking hold, I instinctively began to pull it in, doing the spiritual equivalent of looking over my shoulder to see if Christ had noticed it at all- like, nothing to see over here! All's quiet on the western front, and all... Money! Pfft! I scoff at the stuff!

Then I remembered that I was invited to express my emotion, and not tamp it down so tightly. So I ended up shouting out loud and doing a little angry dance in my chair while shaking my clenched fists at the ceiling.

And then I paid the credit card. And because I had given myself permission to be really ridiculously, even childishly angry, I was able to then move past that and be honestly grateful that we have money to pay it off, and to pay our bills, and to buy stuff.

Also, this means that when Keith calls, innocently expecting to hear the dulcet tones of his loving wife wishing him good morning, he will not hear, instead, the screeching rasp of an angry fishwife who is going to hunt him down and hit him over the head with a greasy fry pan.

So that works out for Keith, too.