The comeback chick, a.k.a. Jane, emerges along with a renewed sense of energy. Apologies to my loyal readers who have wondered where Jane is.
by Jane D.
About a week ago two job offers came in, both unexpected and arriving at a time when this adult ADHDer was on the verge of checking herself into a rehab clinic (i.e., anxiety, depression) or some kumbaya-styled retreat. The family was fully prepared to take me back into the roost, with long sighs, of course. They couldn't kick me to the curb—or could they?
I had hit rock bottom with the trailer park roommate, and the German cockroaches that had infested the freezer.
There was the tsunami-like chaos at the pool where I had been teaching. The teenage lifeguards were cruel in their adolescent and racist ways. One asked me if Orientals liked to eat dogs. I was tempted to shoot back, "Do you guys eat grits and sweet potato pie?" But I swallowed the white-hot anger, fearing that I'd go beyond the tipping point and end up in court.
After an endless day, I'd return to the 5th floor walk up where I was careful not to trip over the Staten Island-like garbage bags piled outside the apartment. I averted the stares of the rough-looking characters in the neighborhood. I'd even adopted new attire for fear that my Banana Republic-style would clash with the baggy pants and bling.
On the off nights, I flirted my way into the bed of The Chef. I'd grown accustomed and even addicted to the routine of swapping complaints with The Chef, who shares my Cinderella complex. He'd whine about being beaten up by the bossy and bitchy women at work, while I'd rant about the roommate and not having any work. "Misery loves company, it's like two beggars on the street swapping pennies," the father said. A friend with benefits is still a friend, I rationalized.
Then came the offers and a new potential suitor, a handsome doctor (an anesthesiologist) who I met about half a year ago, through the online dating service. We both admit that the future is precarious, so why not get to know each other as friends. There is a light, even though there is just a sliver.
The other day I had dinner with the father, stepmother, and sister at an upscale seafood restaurant back in the 'burbs. The loved ones raised their glasses to me and made a toast. "To a new beginning, a fresh start," they said, doing a bottoms up for luck. "Remember to do less. If you do less, you will have no problems," the father said.
I am trying and discarding the piles of clothes, food, and even acquaintances by the wayside. (See "Singletasking Makes Sense".) I stick to the rule of three—no more than three dates, three ideas, three activities, three goals per day, but it is still tough. The mind still runs wild like mustangs, but these days, I'm riding high on cloud nine and I just want to continue celebrating.
Life is good like what the T-shirt says. For now.