This morning, Terry sat down with his (enormous, quart sized) cup of coffee and sighed “Why does it have to be Tuesday, why can’t it be Thursday?”. Yeah, I know the feeling. Granted, I like the week, when everyone’s gone and I can do what I please (within reason), but work is kicking Terr’s arse right now, and his wrist, the one connected to the broken arm, is doing something *really* weird, painfully so, so bad he actually took a Percocet last night and he NEVER does that. He has an appointment to see the orthopedist tomorrow, and is fearing the worst.
You know how it is, when you’re stressed out it seems like all your problems magnify and expand and grow warts and fangs. Last night he was fretting about his wrist and became fairly sure they’d have to re-break his arm and do the whole damn thing over again.
*sigh* It’s times like these I wish he’d get a job…you know…something hourly, with his name on a patch over his pocket, that he’d work 8 or 10 hours, come home, have a beer on the front porch of his double-wide out in the country, and go fishing on the weekend. We’d eat pintos and collards and play with the babies. He’d be called Pap-Paw and I’d be a box-jawed Mee-Maw and we would be embarrassingly country with our sweet tea and pickup truck, but by Gawd we’d have precious little stress. Like something out of a Flannery O’Conner story, only without the mental illness and racism.
Is it really worth it? I have to wonder. Sure we have The Good Life. We have a big fine house on a golf course, new cars, fine clothes, the whole 9 yards. But I sit back sometimes and look at the stress Terry goes through, the discomfort I keep thinking maybe I’m the one putting him through that with my love of new shit and all. He *is* ambitious, he has made this life for us with his drive and gumption, and I deeply appreciate it. I am his biggest cheerleader, fan, what-have-you. But, I worry about him working himself into a heart attack at 50, or cancer, or some other stress related ailment. Life really was easier to live 20 years ago, in that double-wide out in the country. In some ways. Possibly because I knew it was temporary, that one day we’d have a big fine house. Now that I’m here I don’t know…
If only El Presidente would retire…if only The Jackass would find work elsewhere…if only George would grow a backbone. If Only if only…how long is patience required to wait for the If Onlies to happen? Oh I know. Terry has drawn his line in the sand, that point in time when he has decided If Only hasn’t happened by then, he’s outa there. I’m OK with that. I’m glad he’s done it because once he has, it’s etched in stone, not drawn in the sand. It will mean packing up and moving, which is fine. I like moving. But then I’m with staying here, as long as If Only has happened and Things Improve. Otherwise, I’m looking for a house in Missouri. A nice little 3 bedroom ranch house on 5 acres.