As of Friday morning, it looked like dog gigs could mount up to a nice piece of change, for a change, over the weekend. A toddler came down with a fever, someone else's plans changed and my chickens aren't hatching.
Oh, well.
It's simpler not to have to deal with so many dogs, I told myself. There is a cold stinging rain outside, even better reason not to have an encumbered walking schedule.
That one of those gigs involved my favorite dog -- a dog I may love as much as Daisy -- didn't help, but, oh well.
That not having so many dogs meant I'd have more time was good to myself, even as I felt the overweening disappointment feed my fear and the enervation of a couple of weeks of the Horrors set in to pull my center of gravity right down to irresistible sleepiness.
Oh, well.
See, this is why I'm resisting that book of novenas. If I dedicate my prayers to getting that gig in the Other Part of My Life and I don't get it, and I know sitting here there is little reason I should, my attempt to find faith will get a hard knock. I'd been smug for a minute or two about life stepping in to take care of me and that's doubt enough.
And the reason I slept grandly this afternoon? Rain. Not wanting to feel my fear. Not wanting to avoid my fear with food or cigarettes. Not seeing any good reason for consciousness.
I took scant care of the Other Side of My Life and crawled into bed with the third season of House, again. I can't go back to bed until Daisy dries off and I walk one more dog. I'm starting, now, to avoid the rosary because, as mindless as the prayers are, they are a dialogue of need and admission of weakness and failure.
And I just want to say, oh, well. At least I got to nap and rest my brain from the what-ifs.
Damn Lent.