I’ve been stressed lately, I have to confess. Not that I can boast a stress-free life – being the daughter of my father, I have inherited his genes. I can still picture him worried about this or that most of his days, and one particular day my mother asking him what he was worried about, and his reply: “Today I am worried because I have no worries.”
That’s the family I come from I’m afraid, so worrying is a tendency of mine sometimes. Especially on big issues such as the place we live in.
These last few weeks, Better Half and I had been debating the upcoming end of our tenancy agreement. Shall we move to another flat? Shall we stay? Is the price we pay now fair and, if so, do we love the area and the neighbours enough to want to stay? Are there dragons and angels among us? You know, the usual things people wonder about in life.
Having so much work to do (I’m booked until May at the time I’m writing this) I was dreading another move, which would disrupt my life for several weeks, and risk getting even more behind on my commissions schedule. The fact that I have moved a total of 13 times in my life (three of them internationally) also plays a part in this dread, so I found myself having a few sleepless nights. Unlike my father, I felt I was worried because I indeed had things to worry about.
Then came the day we met with our landlord and in about half an hour all was settled: we would stay for another 18 months, no problems, no new funny demands in our contract. In thirty minutes, all was settled.
So all in all, I went without a proper rest for about two weeks without much reason. Wonderful.
Father, we need to have a chat, you and I.