I left something out of my last post. That would be my Catholic guilt. Yes, I was raised Catholic and spent grades one through five being indoctrinated into the faith. Every Sunday we went to Mass, and every Friday it was time for confession. Ah, those were the days. I’d get in that little booth, the door would close and total darkness would descend on me. First, I would immediately and urgently have to go to the bathroom (to this day when I’m anxious, I feel like I have to go to the bathroom. I blame it all on the Catholic church). Then a little slot would open and the priest would ask me about my sins. And I, being a good kid, would assume that there had to be something for me to confess so I would make up numbers like “I lied to my mother twice” or “I talked back three times to my sister” – things like that. Yes, that’s right, I would lie in the confessional. And I would feel like the lowliest worm about it, but I never talked about this to anyone (who would I tell? the nuns? they’d just squeal on me to the priests, I figured) or sought advice on possible alternative courses of action in the confessional frrom anyone. To this day I feel bad about all that fibbing. I should have come clean, I really should have. Not that it makes me want to go back and confess some more or anything, but I do feel bad about it. A lot about being raised Catholic didn’t make much of an impression on me (infallibility of the Pope? puhleeze!), but the guilt – that took. Took like gangbusters in fact. If I accidentally cut somebody off on the road, I feel bad about it for days. If I am even around people who are upset, I feel responsible for their problems. I feel responsible for World War II atrocities and don’t even get me started on the Spanish American War (American imperialism? yep, my fault).

So as I await word on our health care options (or lack thereof) and continue to keep my fingers crossed that I will be able to leave my long-time place of work for much greener pastures, I am consumed both by a walloping case of short-timer’s fever and a terrific sense of guilt over not telling people about my potential job change. Plans are being made with me in them, and I feel like the lowliest worm for not letting them in on the truth. But just like back in the day, I’m not sharing this with anyone who can help, just feeling guilty and stuck.

Back to stewing in my own juices, I guess.

*sigh*