In a bit of a different twist, I’m lying here in bed, listening to Paul breathe. I can’t believe he’s not awake yet; it’s almost 9:45.
I’ve been up since before 8:00, having attended to a critical phone call that I was equally surprised and delighted to have received. Surprised because it’s New Year’s Eve, and so many places are closed. Delighted because it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as I had expected and now it’s behind me.
Herein lies one of my greatest problems. I tend to avoid things that I imagine will be problematic. Lots of people do that. I understand it’s quite normal. I tend, however, to take it to ridiculous extremes, even knowing that I’ll probably be sorry later and sometimes in spite of direct evidence to the contrary. In all honesty, I cannot remember a single time when confronting any challenge that I had mentally magnified into something resembling the horror of imminent execution by guillotine preceded by a fifty-yard walk from the tumbrel that it turned out to be anything more painful, in reality, than running into a door frame, and probably less than that. Why do I do this?
It’s time to get up.