Two weeks on the replacement drug and all I can say is I don't feel like I'm taking a thing. Aside from some initial problems with temperature fluctuation it's been like taking a vitamin: you remember to do it, but there's nothing to show for it other than a sense of completed duty. Since the panic has stopped attacking and my general mental health is as normal as ever I conclude the drug which isn't there is working.
Which is not to say I don't go through brief, frightening moments of being unable to justify my existence. But I think that's within the realm of normal, at least during periods of stress.
I'm not sure how to judge the level of stress in my life right now. I'm constantly busy, certainly. I had to stay late three times last week, something I rarely do when we are fully staffed. But there were deadlines galore, and it's so hard to be creative, let alone coherent, when composing letters and correspondence when the phone is for me and people are constantly stopping by my desk. I talk, talk, talk: this island is best, that airline is no good, don't try to see all of X in one week, yes you need a visa for Brazil, no I don't have any restaurant recommendations for Bratislava, here's a brochure, here's my card. In between the calls and visits I'm trying to recover payments, request fees, conclude contracts, determine the status of refunds, write a welcome letter for a family reunion, demand reparation for a client who was double charged, get sales reps to do me favors, oh, and actually make reservations. Kind of typical, really.
I only worked out once last week, sacrificing my gym time to get caught up at work. I ate pretty well, did my homework, watched lots of back episodes of Buffy, went out for dinner with friends Friday night, did quite a bit with the Sims (I built the coolest Coca-Cola themed house for Moshe Feder), and spent in my garden. Both the lemon and cinnamon scented geraniums I took cuttings of last weekend are doing well in the window next to my computer, hurrah. The dog and I hung out on Saturday while John went to a collectibles show. Sunday I went to the mall and tried desperately to buy a pair of comfortable black shoes with rubber soles; no luck at all despite visiting eight stores. I did find a watch at last, a Kenneth Cole which has all the features of the two previous watches (see earlier entries for the saga) at a fraction of the cost. It's really handsome. It runs. I don't want to ever have to buy a watch again. I can't believe it took me six months to find the right one. I can't believe I couldn't find black shoes in San Francisco. That is so wrong.
Well, I'll probably find some in Manhattan this week. I always find great shoes in New York. Yay, short work week! I've been waiting to go for so long that I keep forgetting that I'll be on vacation soon, away from work, actually having fun somewhere else. That should level out the stress. Oh man, this is going to be so great. First class seats, my first time ever, and we're staying in a very nice hotel in midtown instead of out in the boroughs with friends. I will be able to walk out my door and be at the Metropolitan Museum in ten minutes instead of forty five. I can meet people for dinner and stay out as late as I like instead of worrying about waking up my hosts. It will be the kind of New York visit I always envision and rarely allow myself. Because it costs money to stay in a hotel, of course, of course, and we've got all these wonderful friends who are delightfully sincere in their invitations to stay with them. But not this time. This one time I want to be in the heart of the city.
No, I won't be going to look at "Ground Zero". That was never New York to me, anyway, and it would be too morbid. My New York is the area between 34th and Canal, with forays north to the Met and the Natural History Museum. I buy clothes and shoes in Greenwich Village, eat dim sum in Chinatown, stroll through Little Italy in the evenings looking at the architecture, visit my friends who work at Tor in the Flatiron building, rummage through the books at the Strand, eat in diners on Hudson or tiny Indian places on W. 4th, wander through Soho looking for antiques and used CDs.
I don't really know the rest of the city that well, even though I lived in Washington Heights one summer, and sublet an apartment on 33rd and Second for a while. I once thought I hated New York, but summers in the city can be miserable even if your life isn't falling apart and you haven't any money. Later, when I'd come up to work for two or three weeks at a time, I enjoyed myself tremendously. I was always ready to leave, though. I love it because it's so intense; I can't live there because it's so intense.
So, I'm ready. Ready to stop talking about where someone should travel and do some traveling myself. I'm ready to shop in all my favorite stores, find new ones, eat food I can't get at home, see all my friends (or a significant portion thereof), get a whiff of that distinctive NYC subway smell as I descend a stairwell to catch the 6 or the N, drink sidecars in fancy hotel bars, take photos, and snuggle up with my husband in a bed where we can wiggle our feet and turn over as often as we wish instead of accommodating two cats who don't like us to move once they've settled in for the evening. No dog will wake us up for a walk long before we're ready. There will be a distinct lack of pet hair, laundry, homework, and routine.
Oh, yeah. Vacation. Bring it on.
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