Some days I just feel like feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I curse myself for being too damn self-reflective. God, I wish I could just be indulgently selfish sometimes and not contemplate the causes and effects of my inner drama. But, alas, that's not me. If I can't feel miserable and guilty, what good am I? ;) Not that I can't be selfish... but I have to make myself suffer for it.
It's been a rough week, to some extent. For me, rough means especially that I have to wait for something from someone. I hate to wait. One of my favorite songs has long been Franz Schubert's Ungeduld, as much for it's title as anything else.
I am constantly working out contingencies, and alternate plans, and laying out on the table all the life possibilities I can imagine. I have no problem considering these things. But I'm totally thrown off when something arises that I hadn't considered (even if it's something small, like my wife arriving home an hour later from work than planned... dinner is waylaid, movie night is delayed).
Mostly, however, I'm waiting for this journal to give me word on my article. Sure, it's not even been two weeks. But, of course, I have no way of knowing how long the process is expected to take. They've given me no time frame other than hope to be back in touch with you quite soon. And, that is only one thing I'm waiting for. More importantly (though my anticipation is guided by less hope at this point) are the remaining schools I've applied to. Even getting their curt we're pleased to announce the hiring of Dr. What-Do-You-Mean-You've-Never-Heard-Of-Me Google-Turns-Up-Nothing. Good luck in your career letters at least give me closure.
I know that I am not the center of everyone else's universe, that their sense of time does not revolve around my desire to hear. But, as I recently commented on Confessions of a Community College Dean: The unemployed have the leisure of time to ruminate.