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When I get nervous I tend to start cleaning things with a vengeance.  When I get scared I can usually be found baking something (and then consuming said baked goody).  Under normal weather circumstances (read: not freezing cold and blizzardy) I will usually go for a long, muscle-cramping run to get something off my chest.  When I get freaked out I have this tendency to revert inside my shell and process the crisis.  (Or, I tend to write thousands of words, venting my problem to the universe, only to chicken out and never publish the thing.)

My apartment is clean (or was on Sunday afternoon, which is the last time I was home).  I have several weeks worth of sweets in my fridge.  My running shoes are wet and soggy and my toes may need to be amputated from hypothermia.  And I have hours and hours of silent time a day to think about, categorize and process a million different little things.

What does this tell you?  Well, if you can’t divine some kind of cosmic meaning from the above jibberish, you should take into account the fact that last night for dinner I had a bowl of ice-cream with chocolate sauce.  For dinner.  Goodness, it was delicious!

So what is going on?  Well, you could easily blame these manifestations of CrAzY on any number of factors, not least being this new job (that I still love) and the insane hours I am pulling lately (again, for a job I love).  Working 90 hours a week (every week) is bound to take it’s toll.  Spending days on end away from the comfort of your own bed and your own apartment will mess with your head if you aren’t careful.  And trying to maintain some semblance of a social life (and the ensuing frustration when you discover you only have 48 hours worth of free time in which to smoosh an entire week’s worth of dates, lunches, shopping trips and laundry.

Lots of changes going on over here, people.  And if we’re being completely honest I don’t know how well-equipped I am for that kind of turbulence.  I’m running out of chocolate chips and I’m on my last bottle of 409.  This cleaning/baking binge is going to have to stop soon, right?

Right?

It’s customary to applaud the heroine when she admits to shortcomings, and if you wanted to throw chocolates or tasteful flowers they would be graciously accepted…just sayin’.

Most of the time I claim to like change, I claim to thrive on the constant revolving door and reinvention that has somehow taken over most aspects of my life.  I have lived in the same apartment for three years, but it is the only thing that is remotely stable.  I have had an innumerable number of jobs, boyfriends (ok, maybe not “innumerable”, probably closer to six), cars (three), and crazy ideas (somewhere in the ballpark of 3,472).  Things are constantly changing, and I don’t know why I keep telling myself that change is exactly what I want.

Clearly, I am delusional.  I don’t want change.  I don’t want to be stagnating or anything, but I don’t want everything to be upheaved yet again.  I would really like a bit of stability.  There is some good news, I have a stable job in a queasy economy.  I have a warm and well-loved roof over my head (and over my shoes…very important).  My besties are a constant and a source of endless support.  And I am constantly meeting new people who surprise and amaze me–and, if we’re being honest, new people that terrify and disgust me.  But let’s not focus on them, okay?

………

Actually, there are parts of the above two paragraphs that are completely untrue.  Yes, I want stability.  But I only want that kind of comfortable, contented living if it comes with The Good Things.  What are the good things, you ask?  Well, besides the ones already mentioned–spiritual contentment, stable job, comfortable home, reliable transportation (check, check, check and check) there’s…um…well…hrm.  When you put it out in a list like that it kind of seems like perhaps I should just let go on whatever neuroses I’m holding on to and just see how things go.

Right.  Let go of neuroses.  Okay.

…Is there some kind of magic switch for that?  Perhaps a weekly injection?  No?

Blast.