Just a Thursday

There is no more boring place in the world than an oral surgeon’s office. With home improvement TV shows humming in the background it’s like the waiting room for eternity. Endless and painfully void of any interesting stimuli. Unless, I suppose, you’re an actual patient. Who signed a waiver that you may have your jaw broken. All the action is on the other side of that door. It’s a nice office for the thousands paid to be here, but the bathroom blind is shabby and I saw a huge black ant in the hall. The building is dated. But I suppose we are paying for medical expertise rather than edifice aesthetic. I’ve also paid thousands to my own personal dentist and now his lobby looks like a singles bar and he has vibrating dental chairs, free chapsticks and a Keurig.

I brought my laptop,  and all the books and journals I could physically carry to keep me entertained for the next five hours. Josh kept telling me how there’s a lot of shopping but a day without work or kids, I’d rather write and read. It’s a working day off. I have a couple assignments with a local publication and I started working on my prison book collection project. I also didn’t get to sleep in but I took the opportunity to have coffee on the porch and think about the day before, it seems, like anyone else is awake. Which is priceless.

I reflected on something I think about often which is how this, right now, is probably the hardest I will ever work in my life. Full time job, two young kids and trying to have some sort of career that I have to build from scratch. While doing all the mundane time consuming things that occupy a life, like making sure there are clean spoons and underwear.

And the pressure. Real or imagined. The constant managing of the tension. Knowing when to let go and when to grow. When to relax, and when to do what you need to do even when you don’t feel like it. It’s all just constant.

And I think about that fact that one day, hopefully, I’ll be sitting on the porch and my house is already clean and quiet and maybe a little lonely.  The tide has ebbed and the pressure, real or imagined, is a distant memory if I even remember it at all.

I’ll think about the time it all felt like too much, like how now imagine my own mother felt at this age. And what will I have to look forward to in my ripe old age with nothing to do? Why writing classes at the community college of course? What else? Watch reruns of Fixer Upper all day and recall horribly boring waiting rooms? Nah.


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