I had a wonderful weekend filled with food, friends, and laughter. Dinners with friends, drinks with my brother and his girlfriend, a photo shoot wherein I was made to feel like the hottest, prettiest, best-looking girl who ever posed for pin-up style pictures (reality check: I was clumsy, awkward, giggly, and pudgy, but I didn’t feel that way). And the pictures, well, some of them were awful and some of them were so great I couldn’t believe it was ME in them. Glorious weekend.
But late Sunday evening, as the mister and I watched the weather and prepared for bed, anxiety settled into the pit of my belly, my breathing turned shallow and uneven, and my head started to pound.
There’s a scene in the movie The Holiday where Kate Winslet’s character sobs out that she hates her horrible life. I feel that way.
But I don’t hate my life. In fact, the friends, the family, the husband, the puppy, hell, even the gym time and my dumpy little house are so perfect it’s nauseating. But my job…ugh. Hate my horrible life.