I am. Stressed. Out. Stress in the tightness of my jaw, and in the acid that leaps up from my stomach. Stress in the stutter as I correct and repeat myself, trying to say six things at once. I am easily startled; this morning, in a meeting, I nearly hit the ceiling when Murray* coughed behind me. I am needy and insecure. In this most social of seasons, I want nothing more than to hibernate with a stack of books and knitting.
Does this stress stem from:
1. Money issues?
2. Feeling overwhelmed at work?
3. Feeling underaccomplished as another year sputters and dies, leaving only a thin trail of smoke and the acrid smell of failure?
Why is it that when people wish me Happy Holidays, it feels like just another impossible thing I have to add to my to-do list?
Edited to add: Possibly the one thing that could make this day better has just occurred: Grandma Secretary’s loud, detail-filled discussion of her colonoscopy.