There used to be a time when I could clean the house, do the laundry, and run errands during my lunch hour, complete 15 tasks at work, and then come home and yell at Peter, “Why aren’t we living? Seize the day! Let’s walk to Coolidge Corner!”
Gone are these days. Today I managed to waddle down the street, convinced Peter to buy me a ridiculously overpriced Fenway Park hot dog, and then was so tired when we to the grocery store that I almost threw myself on the ground and wept when Peter didn’t think we should by the 25 dollar a gallon ice cream.
“But it’s the kind I WANT,” I wailed.
The third trimester is starting with a bang, friends.
It has not been helped by this whole “holding down a full time job” thing. Or, I should say, it is not helped in holding down a job where so much hate is directed towards me. I am hated for hiring practices. I am hated for housing lottery. I am hated for the weather in Fiji and, I’m pretty sure, sunspots disrupting television coverage of a cricket match in some far flung fjord in the East.
The hate, it is tiring. And I’m trying to make all parties happy, but apparently that this just can’t be. So much so, in fact, that I received the following email the other day.
“Dear Adrienne, I am a resident on your floor and I need a room change now. My room is hot, dark, and barely leaves any room for me to stretch my legs. I am forced to share it with a nervous, loud woman who constantly wakes me up for her own amusement. I can’t get a decent stretch of sleep and I think she is stealing my food. Please do something immediately.”
I didn’t recognize the email address, so I wrote back, “I’m very sorry that you are having such trouble. Would you consider a mediation? In what room do you live?”
The reply came. “There is no reasoning with my roommate. I depend on her to let me be and then she drinks soda and everything gets even crazier. I live on the first floor in 113.”
“That’s impossible,” I immediately wrote back. “I live in 113.”
Then I received a swift kick to the ribs and a jarring head-butt to the bladder.
“Oh.” I thought. “My bad.”
So I sat down with my unborn child and we made a deal. She can have a room change to much bigger accommodations as soon as she can breathe, unassisted, on her own. I agreed to stop pumping her full of sugar and poking her until she moves, and she agreed that she would continue to do whatever the heck she felt like. I’m not sure it’s the best arrangement, but like I always say, it’s about what works.
I’m pretty impressed at my school’s wireless connectivity though. And I guess I deserve this for eating that laptop too.
In the future, I don’t think I’m going to look for employment as Head of the Department Where You are Most Hated. I hope to upgrade to Middle Management Employee in the Department that is Usually Ignored.
It will be better for all involved.
