I'm playing with my new copy of Kai's Photo Soap. I found it at Office Depot, one of those office supply warehouses where everyone rushes around wearing back support girdles but never appear to actually move anything heftier than a plastic tray. I usually sift through the discounted software but there's usually nothing for Macs in the pile. This is one reason I don't play computer games; I refuse to buy them at full price, and I don't like Marathon which is all I ever find on sale. I suppose I'm not a games person in any format. Card games bore me, for instance. Scrabble is fun, and I play lots of solitaire on the computer, but that's pretty much it. I'll play for hours with new software, though. Photo Soap saves me about a zillion steps in Photoshop in cleaning up old photos. Bye bye, red eye.
Doodling with software leaves me time to think about stuff in a non-threatening way. Sometimes I have to come at difficult ideas at an angle, if you see what I mean. For instance, I'm trying to adjust to the notion of liking my job. I'm totally geared for failure, for not being good enough, for being the weirdo. I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if my new job is real. I'm almost panicked about it. Why, though? Why is success difficult to accept? I suppose I spent a long time learning to cope with failure and it might take a while to learn to cope with this. But that seems backwards, doesn't it? I'm sure I started out expecting to both succeed and fail. Learn to walk, fall down some, but eventually get it right. Learn to ride a bike, bigger falls, more painful injuries, but still eventually get it right. So why not the same with a job? I must consider this line of thought more carefully.
For now I'll just concentrate on coping with my upcoming 40th birthday. I detect the faintest tremor of unhappiness. I don't think I'll suddenly decide to get a trophy husband or a bright red sportscar, but damn it, I don't want other people thinking I'm middle aged. The thought appalls me more than I like to admit. Therefore, I'm admitting it in public. If it's not hidden away, it can't come bite me on the ass. Uh, figuratively speaking, of course.
Maybe I'll just Photoshop a picture of myself with a lithe male actor or something. Get my urge to deny the aging process out via funny composite pictures. I don't care what anyone thinks, I'd date Brendan Frazier in a minute. Cute, articulate, and looks good in a loincloth. What more could a gal ask for as a 40th birthday present? Heh heh heh.
