The Morning After

As with so many of my impulsive actions, I inevitably encounter the dreaded morning after. Hopefully most of you know what I'm talking about: you do something in the heat of the moment, convinced it's entirely the best thing you've ever done, then wake up the next day sane and sober and wonder to yourself what the hell it was you were thinking the previous night. Maybe you brought someone questionable home with you during an inebriated (read, judgement challenged) moment, or maybe you purchased something wildly extravagant with the monthly rent money. Regardless of the action, there is always that panic that sets in the next day within the first thirty seconds of waking.

I can't count the amount of times I've had this feeling, but I can remember some of the more key ones. Creating this blogger may well end up being lumped into that group.

Sometimes though, taking the risk and acting completely in the moment (i.e. wildly out of character) may have its benefits. The day after I met my husband, I woke up with that all too familiar "Oh my God ... what have I done feeling" in the pit of my stomach. No, it wasn't anything as sordid as you may think. Richard was the agent and managing partner of a rental unit. In typical R. fashion, it took us quite some time to get into the apartment (he chased me down the street twice) and by the time we'd burst through the front door, in my excitement at having found something clean and presentable, I heard myself making arrangements to rent the place.

The next morning, I woke up, looked around my apartment and found myself questioning why I was even moving in the first place since I loved where I was living. I spent the day full of anxiety and misgivings over my rash decision to move. When a more experienced, and somewhat callous, friend suggested that I simply call R. up, inform him that I'd made a grave error in judgment and then proceed in short order to place a stop pay on my deposit cheque, I balked in horror.

"But he was so kind and nice," I protested, "How can I possibly do that? No, no, I'll just move in. If I don't like it, I can always move again". (In retrospect, I can't believe that I was that stupid that I'd put myself out rather than just eat crow and call the man. I chalk it up to my overly authoritarian and terribly unforgiving background which didn't allow for second chances or mistakes).

The good news is that it all worked out in the end. I did move and the apartment was lovely and six months after that fact, R. and I had our first date, and the rest, as they say, is history. Thirteen years, three kids and a whacking big mortgage later, I am happily ensconced (or entrenched, depending upon my mood) in my present situation.

Don't get me wrong ... the positive experiences still haven't cured me of the recurring 'morning after' moments, following major decision making. I guess I'm just not far enough along on the therapy spectrum to be that neuroses free!!!

But until then, I'll keep blogging away.