>It's true: part of the reason that I didn't want my trip to India to end is that it was such a fantastic escape. Sure, I like to tell myself (and others) that I am on a writing sabbatical this year, and thus if nothing comes of it, I'll just go back to working at nonprofit community development and finance. The reality of the situation is that I feel like an unemployed loser living off the largesse of my hard-working husband. I hate that, and so the trip to India was running away from a cold and unpleasant reality. It also allowed me to immerse myself in a completely different reality, which makes it a doubly potent fantasy of sorts.

While I was glad to finally sleep in my own bed on Tuesday night, yesterday was that hard transition day back to the little mess I am making of things in a pathetic attempt to pursue a dream that is never going to happen. It started out OK, with a good mocking of the new toilet seat (and there's no need to apologize for your comment, Viciousrumors – Husband was overreacting. The dude doesn't usually even read my blog but I told him that he was getting a lot of props for his purchase, so he checked it out.). Then I fell into a serious funk that really began the night before when Husband made an offhand remark about me being the only person in the room at Passover who didn't need to work the next day. I know he didn't mean it that way, but OUCH!

As I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering what I was doing with my life, Dr. P called. It turns out that she was on call the night before and thus free all day. Did I want to have lunch and hang out? Did I ever! Despite the nasty cold rain that reinforced my dreary self-pitying and discouraged me from leaving my house, I jumped at the chance. We had a very nice time. Of course, all that sort of made me feel worse too because she's moving to Florida for a new job in the next few months, but I'm trying to restrict myself to one nervous breakdown at a time.

Anyway, I should get dressed and set out for my meaningless writing internship at Bugaboo Magazine. Because nothing makes me feel better about my misguided choices in life than writing stories for the rich families that are destroying the fabric of New York City. Hopefully my pity party will end soon, but thanks for putting up with me in the meantime.

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