If there were one characteristic inherited from my mother I would like to nuke is the inability to just fucking relax and enjoy.

Pat could suck joy from the happiest of occasions by worrying what could go wrong or envisioning an ending of plagues, pestilence and destruction. A good report card meant you couldn’t go higher or possibly keep it up. A job promotion meant more work. Newlyweds couldn’t see the bills and tolls of real life. Taking vacation time meant that work would discover they didn’t need you. Anything and everything was fraught with danger or the possibility of failure.

In essence, of course, she was right. Life is full of tragedy and failure and shit you can’t control. But what’s the margin in always thinking about the pain and missing the moment’s pleasure?

All of this verbiage is my long-winded introduction to a simple fact: I got a fucking job.

The salary is livable, the benefits seem great, during the summer every Friday there’s a barbecue, apparently they were hooked on me for the job not long into the interview, I’m interested in the work, and in a way, I’m getting back on a horse that my former employer pushed me off.

Still and all, I’m nervous and scared as hell.