I once read a tidbit about President Obama, back when he was the Senator from Illinois, recounted by a page. The Senator was in a long, dry, boring committee session, and the page sat behind, equally as bored. The Senator wrote a note, folded it and passed it to the page, who unfolded it eagerly. Perhaps some information to find to add to the proceedings. A file to go for. Something. The paper read, “Just shoot me now.”
This morning my troublesome trustee loomed small in my doorway, to tell me again of her dissatisfaction. This rant began, “I’m tired of your snotty attitude toward me,” and thirteen years of perceived sins were fired at close range, few for the first time. There is no response to this, of course. I looked her steadily in the eye, and closed the door when she left.
Just shoot me now.
I’m in for three more years, two months and twenty eight days. Unless she decides not to run for another term in November. In that case, I’m still in for three more years, two months and twenty eight days, but without being lashed to the mast and verbally lacerated to the bone for several months of the year.
The really good news: we’re over winter’s hump, on the downhill slide to the end of March. I looked up the forecast and it’s beautiful:
Last Winters Snowfall
Moving on into spring, it will be warm, and sunshinny bright, then six or nine months light and bright. The trustee’s dissatisfaction with the world will again be halved, and I will be down to two years and six months. And if she doesn’t run again? I won’t push my luck that far. My observation of the cycle of her personality is certainly not scientific. But thirteen years of it have taught me to keep my head below the bow from Christmas until April Fool’s Day.