Listening to: Violent Femmes, "Blister in the Sun"
I eagerly booted up the laptop this morning, my stomach churning as I waited for the desktop to appear. This is it. Today's the day we find out if they'll pay us enough to move.
Outside, the snow had been falling since dawn. Two or three inches already lay atop the previous weeks' snow. I thought about Virginia...the beach...mild temps, even in the winter. As my IM program started up, I dreamt of sunnier days.
"No phone call yet," Jackson messaged. Okay. That's fine. I can wait a little while longer.
I got a cup of coffee and peered out the window. The flakes were light, but there were a lot of them, and they seemed to be falling fast. The tree branches looked pretty, all sheathed in white.
Then it came. "Not enough."
I sighed and looked fondly at my home. It's not much, but...yeah, it's home. I thought of my family, and how my little brother surprised me when he read "Fox in Socks" to me last week. How skinny my dad's gotten, and how much I worry about him. How good it felt to help my mom out when I was home. I thought of my friends, and the warm feeling that spread through me as we sat at Denny's, arguing about the differences between caper and action movies.
I smiled. Yeah, a move would be exciting, and I certainly wouldn't mind the change in scenery. But when it comes down to it, this is my home. And I realized that I'm actually happy here.
I really don't mind the snow, and the occasional boredom, and the crappy roads so much. This is where I belong, and I'm happy about that.
With that settled, I prepared to go to the store. I bundled up in my hat and gloves (big hole in the index finger of one, I need a new pair), started the car, and armed myself with the snow brush. Brrr. Freaking cold out here. Five minutes later, I hastened into the warmth of the car. Snow covered the lower third of my jeans, and my cheeks tingled with the cold.
Gotta gas it good if I'm gonna make it out of the driveway. Slipped and slid all over, finally coming to rest in the deep depressions the tires had made. No go.
I turned off the car with a sigh. I could shovel and salt, or I could walk.
I wrapped my arms around my chest and lowered my head to keep the wind-driven flakes out of my face as I trudged up the road.
What was that I said about being happy?
If you don't feel that you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then possibly what you are doing isn't very vital. If you don't feel like you are writing somewhat over your head, why do it? If you don't have some doubt of your authority to tell this story, then you are not trying to tell enough. --John Irving