Maybe it’s all this time in close proximity with my girls. Maybe it’s that even in the bathroom, I’m not safe from “MOOOOOOM” or Jane banging on the door, demanding to know what I’m doing. Maybe it’s that since we just moved, I don’t know anyone yet I can bitch to about my kids without them thinking I’m a sinner and calling CPS. Maybe it’s that my house isn’t so full of boxes anymore, just the tough ones that are left, the ones full of junk I have no idea where to put. Maybe it’s that all the jobs I seem qualified for involve wearing an apron at Home Depot or Starbucks. Maybe it’s that my husbands new job is to travel, almost all the time, at the whim of the Air Force (making me angry at dumb airmen who make really stupid choices and get court martialed for it. Really guys? Weed? Spice? Porn? Be more creative!). Maybe it’s because I can’t figure out how to use a convection oven and ruined the cookies baked to make me feel better. Maybe it’s my 30th birthday approaching and the surety that I will never, ever get any taller. Probably I’ll start shrinking.
Who knows. Luckily, I’m not one of those people who feels the need to be happy all the time. I don’t believe that feeling sad or angry or a little on edge is bad for you, as long as it doesn’t last forever. I do believe that there is a recipe or a walk or a vodka tonic or a good cup of a new kind of coffee or a trip to Target that will fix things right up. I just have to figure out which one.