I hate transition. I tend to greet it with resistance and a middle finger. As my sister enjoys recalling, I cried when my family got rid of the first refrigerator I had ever known. A traumatic childhood, I know.
JD and my first few years together have been marked by a lot of joy and a lot of change. We’ve followed each other to Cairo, DC, and Denver. We’ve had jobs, we’ve not had jobs, we’ve lived in one room, we’ve bought our first home, we’ve adopted a dog, and we’ve adopted another dog. For someone who likes stability and routine (hello 9:30 bedtime and sleepytime tea), this has been both uncomfortable and challenging.
I would like to say that I now welcome transition with open arms but that would be a lie. I accepted a lovely job as a copywriter last week (Someone is actually going to pay me to write about cooking, painting, etc…What?!). I spent two weeks agonizing over the interview process and hoping that I wouldn’t recreate my worst interview ever (an experience that included such an immense amount of sweat that it dripped into my eyes and mouth making me so self conscious that I broke into hives).
They did not need to mop up after me in last week’s interview, and I got the job. You might assume that my suffering ended with the euphoria of a dreamy job offer, but don’t worry, I can find something to worry about in even the best of times. I switched gears to dread of the inevitable two weeks notice meeting now before me. When that too was over and my soon-to-be ex boss and I were drying our eyes and eating chocolates, I decided that perhaps some of this worry that I continually carry around is a little excessive.
The whole ordeal was a good reminder that while I can now control at least the outpouring of sweat that accompanies me in stressful situations, I still have a long way to go in my acceptance of change, possible failure, and the constant transition that is life.
Our home has been a huge exercise in patience. It will be months before we finish some projects and years before we finish others. In the mean time, I’m practicing loving the imperfections in our home and in our lives. Because, as my husband tells me over and over, the imperfections are what life is all about (or something like that, I’m usually rolling my eyes).
Change can be painful and transition, slow. You may not be to the point of embracing the change in your life, but maybe start by shaking hands with it.