Hanging on a Hiatus

Among the regular tasks of my tiny laptop, there are often those that inevitably pose problems. Forgetting the fragile state of modern technology, I run too many applications simultaneously. The more I have open, the more I feel I can accomplish. A web browser, my music, and a word processing program are the staples. Occasionally, a file sharing program or a cranky CD is hoarding the energy. Of course, everything runs slower when I have too much running. Too much memory is being used; actual performance is down.

Such is the case with stress levels, and we are the computers. I’ve got way too much pending and only so many resources and bits of sanity with which to be productive. Amazingly, I still have one project out from school that needs to be turned in. Apartment hunting is like a slow martyrdom with little to show for the amount of effort that I’m putting into it. My latest temp agency has a potential job lined up, provided that they like me and I can stand the idea of selling my soul to days in a cubicle.

Really, it’s the packing that irks me most of all. I have too much shit! Why the hell do I need a job when I could open up a small shop selling all the clothing, books, and artsy baggage that I’ve been dragging across the country for years?!? No wonder I have no money saved; it’s all been invested in last decade’s line of Valentino, Donna Karan, and Christian Dior. And, what I cannot wear, I can list on the bibliography page of a sizeable dissertation. That was actually the plan until recently with my graduate career taking a detour into the world of the nine-to-fivers.

No one should be shocked to know that I have repeatedly entertained the idea of heading home to Texas. It would be a step away from the unknown, toward family and friends. After all the pros, cons, candy bars, and conversations, I am resolved to make it work right where I am, at least, for now. Sure, the New York isn’t Austin, but it’s a sufferable runner-up. It all comes down to the gray area in which I find myself. I’m established enough in the City to make leaving somewhat regrettable, but it’s still too hard for me to enjoy regularly.

So, until I have my foot in the door of stable job and my boxes in the corner of a new apartment, I will be crashing chez Daniel, who has been a tremendous help. At the risk of jinxing things, we haven’t fought these last few weeks. Honestly, there’s just no time to yell at him. I would really go off the deep end if we too weren’t working out as well as we have been lately. To his credit, he’s done little to provoke he toward insanity. Don’t worry; I won’t get too excited. It’s probably just a phase.

My stress level is like never before. I keep thinking of my very first research paper, an endeavor that cast me into a corner crying because I didn’t know how to sustain an argument for more than a paragraph. Like an overworked computer, the symptoms suck. I’m experiencing regular soreness, headaches, disorienting spells of dizziness, and a heart rate that reminds me of the anxiety of sex on the first date.

For those of you who might romanticize my being in the City for New Year’s Eve, please know that I plan on staying uptown with a Daniel at a small apartment-warming party. Sure, I’d like to be in the Village or on the Lower East Side, but this week, it would be too much. I couldn’t go below 14^th Street if I tried. With all that’s going on, why would I risk it? So what if tonight in Manhattan is quieter and less jubilant than I had hoped, well then, I won’t forget that there will always be other times. I suppose that’s why we have weekends.

Happy New Year!