Case of the ?!?'s

The world seems very heavy right now, squeezing the ever living foo out of my shoulders. Burdensome worries are abound, and I feel like a three-legged dog trying to paddle through white water rapids. My stresses- your typical adult issues. Money, insurance, career, blah, blah, blah. But they are not simply blahs to me because my fear is keeping me up at night, my stomach in knots, and slowly the evidence of my worry-wartisms is etching lines into my face. Sweet, now my strife is hermaneutic.

Not sure if I've mentioned this before but being a grown-up can really bite the big one, at times.

I want to write it all down, all my fears, though I wouldn't even know where to start. And even if I did commit these concerns to blogland format, I'd readily envision myself a fool because I have so much good going on, too. For example, have you noticed how awesome Miles is? I have a 22 pound angel living under my roof- a miracle, teething and all. Additionally, Jesse, my partner through the muck and mire, radiates a calm bravery which strengthens the both of us. Thank God for my family and friends- for without them, I'd certainly be lost.

At the heart of my fear is my need for control, for answers, for stability... all fleeting sources of balance that take collective hikes when the going gets tough. Where can I submit a request for a fairy godmother? Is there some kind of screening process? A co-pay or referral service required? Certainly someone out there would spot me a letter of reference: Anna could use some magical intervention, STAT. Please wave your wand and make that pesky "Check Engine" light, which currently illuminates her dashboard 24-7, turn into a brand new Subaru with no such lighting effects attached. Remove those brassy tones from her dyed hair. Leave a career under her pillow, and let her sleep. Please let her sleep at least through one night without having to watch the 3am leather handbag sale on HSN. Seriously, who buys purple patchwork purses at that time of day?!? Who? Other stressed-out, sad sacks with versatile wardrobes. At least, that's my guess.

Before I slink off to loose myself in some reality programming or continue reading my Irvine Welsh novel (a potential source for my off mood because he's the master of penning nitty-gritty living), know that the irony of my moaning is not lost upon my frazzled brain cells. When I was younger, equally as pouty, and rocking chipped black fingernail polish, I craved for the day when I would be considered an adult. Yep, Dad was right. Youth is wasted on the young. Now that I am sitting firmly square in the land of responsibility, my eyes keep lingering to my rear view mirror. Lot of good that'll do me.

Am I too young to retire?

And now season 2 of True Blood is over?!? And the season finale wasn't even equal to half a bag of chips? Is there no justice in this world, I humbly ask you?