I’ve written about this before.

One of the hardest things, it seems, is going into work when you’ve already quit.

You’d think you’d be this giant ball of happiness — that every time something went wrong, you’d breathe a self-satisfied sigh of relief that soon, sweet soon, this would no longer be your burden to bear. The place would turn into this technicolor dreamworld with rainbows and butterflies and men with ties and button-down shirts would break into song every time you head to the lavatory.

But. The reality of the situation is that everything that bothered you before, now bothers you more. Much more. Tasks that turned your stomach pre-quittal become that much more grotesque when handed to you post-quittal. Your mind says, Why are you doing this? You’ve already quit. Just leave. You don’t need to stick it out another 2 weeks.

Suddenly, there’s all this pressure to finish projects. And new project ideas seem to appear from nowhere — projects that somehow, oh wonder of wonders, only you are qualified to handle. And it’s really really important they get finished before you leave, but oh, could you also do your regular tasks as well, because I’d like to put off learning them as long as possible, and really — it’s no big deal for you to stay another week, is it, because it’s not like you’re starting another real job…

Of course, I’ve never actually heard any of these things spoken out loud.

But I know the thoughts are there.

And really, it’s not so bad to feel needed. And it’s not so bad to feel like you’re making a contribution.

The problem arises when you start to feel used. Abused. And a little bit manipulated.

So the countdown begins to preserve my good cheer towards those who’ve employed me.

Quitting, it turns out, is how I maintain decent professional relationships.

And during that awkward time between quitting and actually leaving, I distract myself by making a plan.

I’m constructing a website to highlight my services, which, as much as I’d like them to say, “I travel the world and photograph and write about stuff,” will more likely say, “Give me money and I’ll take your picture. Or a picture of a house. Or your food. Or whatever you want me to photograph as long as it’s legal.”

And I almost hate to admit it because it seems that every would-be full-time blogger these days turns over to photography as a “back up” career, like it’s just something that any old hobbyist can pick up and turn into a business, and I would like to be the first to come out and tell you that is absolutely correct.

Of course, there’s much more to it than picking up a DSLR, sticking her in “auto” mode, and handing over some prints. And I fully intend to learn more ins-and-outs of people posing, lighting, and post processing, all while attempting to re-vamp this blog and scratch out some sort of writing existence.

I can make this happen.

I will make this happen.

Not just for me, but for you. Because I feel like you have my back. Like this is important to you, too. Like you quit your job right along next to me and now I need to make this happen for the both of us.

And the good news, too, is that I won’t be scribbling out a post half-dressed for work while guzzling down a coffee and applying for mascara.

We’re going to start going for quality here, people.

Well.

Let’s be honest.

It will still be drivel.

But un-rushed drivel. Languishing drivel. Drivel with heart.

So bear with me, friends.

I have a lot to say.

This morning, it rains.

So rather than take the mutts for our morning walk or get any kind of physical exercise whatsoever, I’m making crepes and lamenting the fact that last night I reached a hideous low in my state of Justinless pitiability.

I was going to get the photos ready for a post about San Antonio, and since I’m hardly organized enough to already have those photos labeled and filed on my iMac, I dug a memory card from my camera bag, sent a wish out to the Universe that the photos I wanted were on it, and stuck it, rather unceremoniously, into the computer’s CD drive.

I stuck my memory card into the CD DRIVE.

Not the memory card slot which, due to a lazy design flaw on Apple’s part in my humble little opinion, is located directly beneath the CD drive on the side of the monitor.

And humble, I am, because I didn’t even look.  I just felt it go in, much further than normal, and peeked around the side to see the top of the card was flush with the side of the monitor.

Sonofabitch.

I stuck a piece of paper inside in order to entice it out, but turns out I should’ve tried flowers or chocolates or seductive letters because the damn thing slipped all the way inside, past the rubbery dust blocker thingies, and I heard it clink to rest inside the drive.

Now normally, this is where husbands come in.  I don’t know if you know this, guys, but us women, we use you.  Like, a lot.  Like, even if there’s something we’re perfectly capable of doing but would rather have you do it in case it gets messed up so we can have someone to blame other than ourselves, we ask you to give it a whirl.  Plus, when you do fix it, it makes you feel all manly and powerful and needed and then we’ve done our good deed for the day by letting you do your good deed for the day.

Win-win.

But last night, I couldn’t exactly call Justin’s superiors in Afghanistan and ask if they’d send him home real quick because I did something dumb with my computer.  In fact I can’t exactly call Justin at all — ever — and this tends to pose a problem when I need advice on fixing the dog’s electric fence or why the subwoofer’s buzzing or how to get an effing memory card out of an effing CD drive because apparently, I effing suck at effing EVERYTHING.

So you see, this is where the inevitable self-pity came into play.  I knew that frustrated tears were well on their way, and I should probably pour another glass of wine because the pity party’s not a party without any wine, and I can’t believe I just got home from Raleigh like 2 hours ago, which is an hour away and happens to be the location of the closest Apple store, and who knows how long it will be before I can get back there and get this fixed?

Spiral.

But.

I have a trick for when this starts to happen.

You’re going to love me for this, really.

Go to YouTube (assuming lack of internet connection isn’t your problem), and run a search for “Stuck in a Moment” by U2.

Then, listen.

U2 Stuck in a Moment

And once you do, you will probably cry a little bit.  And then, wonder of wonders, you will smile.  And maybe even laugh.  Because really, with this song, U2 has struck the winning combination of  I-get-it-and-everything-will-be-okay understanding and smack-you-in-the-face-get-over-it-bitch-and-move-on-with-your-life motivation.

Seriously.

So after closing my eyes to “Stuck in a Moment” followed by some internet searching for “how to get a memory card out of an iMac CD drive” and relief that holy crap I’m not the only one, I fashioned a hook tool from folded cardstock and packing tape and, after about 20 minutes of sweet talking and many cardstock prototypes, was able to fish the sucker out.

Source

So.  I never did edit the photos.  Because after all of this, I did crack just a little, U2 or no, and decided that a microwavable peanut butter mug cake and a large glass of milk would do better to cure my woes after a harrowing night of memory card rescue than a bout of actual productivity.

And I was pretty well convinced that composure would not be my primary reaction if I managed to stick the memory card into the right slot and discover that my photos weren’t on it.

I still haven’t had the courage to look.

But, when I do, and if I feel the need to spaz out, “Stuck in a Moment” will be there to bring me back to earth.

Because, really.

I never thought you were a fool
But darling, look at you
You gotta stand up straight, carry your own weight
‘Cause tears are going nowhere, baby

You’ve got to get yourself together
You’ve got stuck in a moment
And now you can’t get out of it

…

You are such a fool
To worry like you do
I know it’s tough and you can never get enough
Of what you don’t really need now, my, oh my

And we don’t.  In the end.  Really need anything.  Just a clear head, some decent music, a little perspective, and the energy to keep on swimming.

Justin has been in Afghanistan for over 3 months now, and I’m ready to admit something.

Here goes.

Ready?

Okay.

There have been times in our marriage when I’ve looked at him and thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you.

Like the time he realized he didn’t brew enough coffee after he poured his cup but before he poured mine, so instead of making more coffee to fill my cup, he just ran new water back through the soggy, used coffee grounds and hoped I wouldn’t notice that my cup was filled with light brown water as opposed to actual coffee.

Times like that, my friends, when I thought, I can’t believe I’m actually married to you and not in a totally smitten, pre-honeymoon, post-vows kind of way with a mental tone of adoring and grateful affection, but in a we’ve-been-living-together-for-over-8-years-now-and-you-think-I-won’t-notice-weak-coffee? kind of way with pure, unadulterated, incredulity.

And.

I know it sounds terrible, but there it is.

The “good” thing is, I know I’m just as bad.

(What can I say?  I’m a Libra.)

Like the time he came home after 3 months in Africa to find I’d bought dog beds so our little monsters could sleep with us in our bedroom to keep us safe from intruders and bogeymen and fill the space with protective methane fart gas throughout the night.

Because I always think these things through, you know?

So.

Even though I do these things too, I still usually feel that I’m in the right.  That I know best.  That really, if we would just do everything my way, the world would spin smoothly and double rainbows will fill our home and the sex will always be fantastic and no one will ever — ever — have to sleep in the wet spot.

(Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

But now he’s been gone for 3 months.

Three months, apparently, is enough time for me to stop blaming him for every cluttered mess that collects on counters, for almost-empty orange juice bottles in the fridge, for laundry that sits in the dryer for days, and the pulpy, globulated mess that coats my clothes when an errant pocket receipt goes through the wash.

It’s enough time, apparently, to realize that I’m actually fallible.

I mean, I’ve always known I’m capable of making mistakes.  In fact, maybe my blunt, drunken wrist tattoo should read erroneous, because I’ve certainly made more than my fair share.  And I’d be the first to admit it.

But it was always these little things.  These little house things that would get on my nerves make me mutter under my breath as I’d fritter around the house collecting crumpled papers that someone — and certainly not me — was too lazy to throw away, are not always entirely his fault.

And that’s the gift of distance.

They say, you know, that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I know a secret.

The real benefit of absence is clarity.

The way it gives you a chance to look at yourself.

The chance to experience the discomfort that comes with the dawning realization that wait — I’m not perfect?

It’s not a good feeling.

But it’s a helpful feeling.  And a relief, too, to know that he’s not the only one to blame for the messes and the occasional late charge and sometimes erratic online shopping binges.

Wait.  Maybe that last one has always been me.

But my point is that true perspective — not just about a partner but about yourself — is something that most people who’ve been living together for a long time never have the space — or the distance — to experience.

And that’s unfortunate.

Because while I would never recommend that you ship your significant other off to Afghanistan for a quarter of a year or more, a little space can sometimes help.

Not to get away from your partner.  But to get back to yourself.

So now, at least I know.  I remember.  I can overlook the little things when he gets home because while cohabitation definitely creates more messes and chaos, it also provides an extra set of hands to help.

Except the coffee thing.  I can’t overlook that.

But I’m working on it.