Went to bed at midnight then woke at 3 a.m. and COULD NOT go back to sleep! I tried reading boring business books. I tried turning out the light and willing myself to go to sleep. I don’t know why it is, but 3 a.m. seems to be my designated worry time. Maybe it is because I don’t have a lot of time to do it during the day, so 3 a.m. is when I start worrying about things like the economy, my husband’s health, and how, if he should suddenly die, I’d be living under a bridge somewhere because my paycheck will not stretch to cover taxes, house insurance, utilities, groceries, and gas and how there are not many jobs that pay somebody in their 50s a living wage when they are starting all over again. I know. I’ve looked. On the other hand, I’d be able to fit into my skinny jeans again on account of not eating.
I wander through the house trying to find something to do that won’t make any noise. I grab clothes from the hamper in the dark and throw them in the washing machine. I fold laundry. While I fold laundry, I wonder about why I’m subject to these early morning anxiety attacks.
The only thing that I could come up with, after sufficient heartfelt soul cursing because I really do not enjoy folding laundry (but I figure that if my mind is totally determined to punish me, why not be completely miserable?) is that I feel the same sense of events being as out of my control as I did when I was a little kid. First stepdad (not the kindly man that recently died and was deeply mourned) was an alcoholic asshole. He would drink up the rent money, take a swing at his boss, or have to leave town because an irate husband was looking for him (I didn’t know this part until I grew up). He’d come home, announce we were moving, sell all our stuff or just abandon it except what we could fit in a truck or car, and be off to the next place.
We never spent more than one year in a school district. Often we’d be in several schools over the course of our school year. My poor mother tried to grow food and can vegetables so that we’d have something to eat when the grocery money had been spent in bars, but often the move would come before the garden was ready or, if food had been canned, it was left behind. Took up too much space. Sometimes we were left with our grandmother if there was no place for us to live except the vehicle. Those were the good times. Then we were taken away, often across the country, where she could not check on our welfare.
I spent some time pondering the similarities. Obama has wasted billions of taxpayer dollars on his friends just as surely as the stepdad did in the bar buying rounds of drinks. He makes capricious economic decisions based on feelings, not facts, and beggars portions of the population for no discernable legal reason. I suspect, however, that there are a LOT of kickbacks and under the table cash payments going on.
Like my stepdad, I get the feeling that Obama isn’t exactly living in the reality-based world. Stepdad was completely convinced of his superiority to every other living being regardless of opinions to the contrary, and he felt he was entitled to everybody else’s money, too. He hated the rich. And he was a staunch Democrat.
I need to explore this further later when I have time.
Heh. Well, maybe now that I understand why I feel the way that I do, I’ll be able to get some sleep tonight. Gotta get ready for work now, or I’ll be late!
Y’all have a good day.