Lost in Translation

This morning I was paying the bills and stretching the budget.  Robbing Peter to pay Paul and all kinds of creative accounting.  It was exciting.

David came in to tell me that he was taking a conference call and he would be unavailable from eight to eight thirty.

I stared at him, trying to translate.

It was something like:

"I'm taking a conference call so don't come in and loudly ask me to kill a scorpion or a mouse or where all the money went or if I can put the dishes in before I leave, and especially don't let Adele do her morning serenade.  That could be embarrassing.  I just need you to really try and be independent and solve your own problems without bothering me for the next thirty minutes.  Do you think you can do that?"

Which did not seem very nice, and which made me want to pick a fight but he had a conference call and I was exhausted, so I let it go.  (Well, not really...given that I am still talking about it.)

Now it could be that my translator is off.  But let's be honest, that seems unlikely.

The real problem of course is that I used to be capable.  And instead of wondering what is wrong with me lately (I'm thinking brain tumor), it's easier to be offended by the fact that David has clearly noticed the change.  When did I get so easily overwhelmed by my life?  When did everything become so hard?  How long have I been so tired I can hardly think? 

I keep thinking that my life is going to sort itself out, that my new path and purpose are going to reveal themselves to me, but I am as lost today as I was in August, four months ago.  I keep telling myself that it shouldn't be this hard, that I am in charge of my own life, but it's not helping.  I feel like an ex-con who is suddenly terrified by freedom, by a life without restrictions, and is ultimately more comfortable in prison and so he commits a crime just to feel safe and structured again. 

And you thought I was kidding about the brain tumor.  What else could it be?  Low blood sugar?  Anemia?  Hypothyroidism?  A B-12 deficiency?  Outright insanity?

The truth is I don't need a CAT scan, or a sandwich, or a nap, or a couple of pints of A+ blood.  (Though I wouldn't say no to any of them, especially the nap and the blood.)

What I really need is a little revelation, my own personal urim and thummim, with maps and directions for this strange new land.  The sooner the better.  (Preferably before I turn to life a crime.) 

And as an added benefit, traditionally urim and thummims also translate languages.  David should be delighted.