Unease

I wake too early. Already I violate my resolve to live my life as a dog. Idgie would yawn, stretch, and go to the front door. And if I didn't follow soon enough, well. . . Woof! Woof!!! WOOF!!!!! Until I obeyed her command and her really sensible desire to go outside now.

Instead, I lie in bed and pick at the scab of worry. Just two months to find another job. Oh yeah. Last time it took me 18 months. Just two months until I have to enter the purgatory of unemployment. Visits to the Office of Workforce Development, where former machinists serve as job counselors and flip back and forth between competence and mental illness. Just two months until the not quite enough monthly check becomes $300 a week.

The sounds of Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me suddenly arise from the radio. Normally, Roy Blount Junior's voice is exactly what I want to hear first thing in the morning. Sorry, Mrs. Junior, but it's true. I think your husband is hot.  But now the scabs are bleeding and I have to worry about the damn sheets and the stock market and being too fat and. . .

"Mom," I hear, as the door cracks open. "Can I use George's car to go to work?" It's Liz, my daughter.

"Sure," I say. "But how'd you get here?" She's in college across town and doesn't stay here often. I must have been asleep when she arrived.

And instantly I relax. Muscles soften. Happiness starts moving through me, starting. . . where? The head? The heart? The liver? Who knows? Who cares? Some doggie place in us that says my pack is here and all is well, all manner of things will be well. Go outside now!

Woof!

Someone on the radio makes a joke about 2012. That's right: the world is coming to an end this year! Between my unemployment and what little's left of my savings, I can last that long. Yippee!

Stretch. Up. Outside!

Oh wait. Better put some clothes on first.