So I took two days and headed back to northern Virginia to take a break from the house and the mounting pressures of my other, actual job. And you thought all I did was work on this house! HA! As if. I just wanted to be alone, to not talk to anyone about anything more complicated than whether I wanted tripe or tendon in my pho, a brief conversation I don’t have the luxury of in my now decidedly rural province.
Northern Virginia was, perhaps, an ill-conceived place to seek relaxation. As soon as I got on home ground, I wanted to keep riding right up Arlington Boulevard to my crappy old apartment, I-66 traffic and Metro terrorists and screaming Moroccan babies be damned, where I had my cozy nest and friends around the corner and awesome Mediterranean food right outside my door. And art museums. God, I miss my favorite painting at the National Gallery.
I hate how this house has become the focus of my life, and apparently the only thing I can talk about. I am like someone who has a kid and only talks about babies, only my baby won’t grow up to properly dispose of me in a nursing home. Which may or may not be a bad thing, now that I think about it. Regardless how my mortal husk ends up, if anything this project has shown me how ill-equipped I am to handle the sustained stress that comes with trying to do anything big. I thought this would be something I could manage, that I had subjected myself to and weathered enough change that I could sail through this challenge, but I was sorely naive and falsely confident. It was too much, and too long, and I failed miserably to protect myself with what I know works: the social support of friends, exercise, a diet that agrees with my body and an insulating barrier of blessed silence.
There are supposedly six weeks left in this project. I have never been so exhausted in my life.