Between the Couch and a Soft Place

I woke up at three a.m. I hit the snooze button. 3:15. Hit the snooze button. 3:30. Hit the snooze button. And so on, until 4 am, when I got up.

Made a pot of coffee. Checked my email. Got dressed. Went to St. Fatty's for the Eucharistic Hour.

Prayed for Wes. Prayed for several friends who need surgery. Prayed the Rosary.

When the hour was over, went to Favorite Bagels, which was closed. To Dunkin Donuts where I bought my first pumpkin product of the season. Went to Pocket Park on the Lake, where I watched the stars set over the lake and saw the first faint glimmerings of dawn. Savored the muffin and my coffee, then went to 7 am Mass.

You would think I should be all holy now, but alas, that is not the case.

It's a cold, fine morning now. The mist of pre-dawn vaporized in the sun.

Today promises to be very full, if I want it to be, including the South Jersey Singers. And dozens of others of things as well.

But what I really want to do is climb back into my pjs, curl up on the bed and go back to sleep for another three hours. Is that cheating? And if it is, do I really care?

A Madness in My Method

I've been me and worked with myself long enough to know how I roll.

Like the stages of grief to acceptance, I have my own way of doing things. I wish I had Visio on this PC. I'd draw you a picture. It's not a real process unless it has a flowchart.

Anyway, here's how it works:

Step 1. I am handed a new project. I am overjoyed. Here at last is the project for which I was made. My mother labored in a delivery room 54 years ago just for this specific moment.

Step 2. Boldly, I dive into the new project. I feel like I'm in a David Hockney painting because everything is so clear, no shadows, so linear, no toxic heaps on the floor. I swim flawlessly for 25% of the time. Then...

Step 3. I submit my work thus far for approval. Any confidence I had on steps 1 and 2 has by now disintegrated into jitters and the inability to look the project in the eye while I know my superiors are reviewing my work. I imagine them burying their heads in their hands, saying, "I'm not gonna tell her. You tell her. I know she was really counting on this, but for crying out loud, can't she even write a simple Whatever?"

Depending on my mood, the alternative is Ralphie Parker's fantasy in "A Christmas Story" when he hands in his "What I Want for Christmas" essay. The teacher is in such ecstasies that she writes "A+ + + + + +" all around the room.

Either scenario results in my hiding my head and playing Bejeweled 2 obsessively.

Step 4. I finally trank myself down enough to ask the question that seldom fails:

I don't know what to do next but if I did, I would ___________

Usually, it's simple to fill in the blank, even when I'm waiting for feedback.

I realize right now I'm operating in what feels like a vacuum to me and that does nothing to quell my nervousness.

Step 5. Accept that no answer will be immediately forthcoming and get to work. I realize that I may be leading myself down my own primrose path, but eh, it's something to do.

Step 6. Receive feedback. There are three possible scenarios here.

Scenario 1: They love me! They love me and think every word I write, including if, and, and the, is a perfect shrine to Strunk & White. Carry on, carry on!

Scenario 2: They hate me. I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. The document is covered with so many corrections that it looks like it's bleeding. I hang my head in despair and wait for the axe to fall.

Scenario 3: They think it's good but it needs some work. Could I finish up with the task matrices?

This whole business will be repeated until, um, it ends.