I went to see my therapist for the first time in three weeks and I had a lot to tell him - about the school vacation and my dreaded exams and the latest work drama. And then I realized I'd been talking for 45 minutes straight and felt suddenly sheepish that I'd made him listen to all of that, and there was an awkward pause, and he said he thought my stories were very precisely observed. And then he looked sort of pained, and there was a longer, more awkward pause, and eventually he managed [something to the effect of] well...at least when you leave this job you'll have a very accurate understanding of why you left!
Indeed.
In other unsurprising news, I've been sticking close to home to recover and not freak anyone out with my cold, and home-cooked dinners have appeared on the table, on time, every night this week. It turns out that being a good housewife requires several more hours of work than I usually dedicate to the job. Which is why I'm a mediocre housewife. Duh, right, but this was a helpful reminder: it's not that there's something dreadfully wrong with me or my home economics skills, it's that I choose to use my time in other ways. (And I'm going to stick with that story until I come up with a better one.)
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