I actually started two weeks ago. Because my "beard" never really amounts to much. After all that time, as you can see, it looks pathetic.
So does my "resting face". I'm really not upset. I'm just ... tense.
It's been a long two years now, working on that basement. And trying to get stable, enjoyable employment. And seeing the kids start to move on with their lives. And realizing that, physically, it's all downhill from here.
Compared with a lot of humanity, of course, there is nothing worthwhile to complain about. The house is still standing. The cars (mostly) run. The paycheck comes in every couple of weeks. The checks don't bounce. The kids, although we don't always see eye-to-eye, are still a wonderful blessing. Cheryl is still the most amazing woman ever. (After all, she still puts up with me ... mostly.)
But it is in my nature to complain. Because it is also in my nature to see the imperfect side of things, the things that need to change. It's probably the worst combination of tendencies: perfectionism and pessimism. I know what needs to change, but I doubt it ever will.
Especially in myself.
Were anyone brave enough (or long-suffering enough) to walk beside me as I go about my business during the day, they would quickly come to the conclusion that I am extremely slow when it comes to making decisions or coming up with solutions to problems. They might even conclude that my brain functions a bit on the sloooow side of things. Especially when contemplating tasks that need to be accomplished around the house, like fixing the cars or repairing walls or finishing basements. I can sit and stare at a wall for a long time, trying to figure out the perfect way to hang a ceiling panel; many a weekend has passed by with nary a thing to show for it but an idea or a sketch that is almost what I'm looking for, but not quite ... and it may take me another couple of weekends before the idea actually makes its way into reality.
I really don't like to be rushed.
And neither does my beard.
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