I feel tiny.
This house is really big, but it’s not just the square footage that makes it feel so huge. Everything in this house makes me feel like a pipsqueak, from the high ceilings to the two-story stairways. I can walk under the dining room chandelier without hitting my head. Add to that the high counters and tall cabinets in the kitchen, toilets that seem to be 3 inches farther from the floor than usual, and a bathroom sink that I have to stand on tip-toe to reach, and you can imagine how insignificant and small this 5’8″ guy feels.
I’m feeling small in another way. A kind of depression has set in as I sit here alone 3,000 miles away from home; I’ve been working steadily for the last few days on freelance work for the old job, but it’s lonely because I can’t pop out of my office to chat with my co-workers. And today, Diego is in the animal hospital having dental work done, so I don’t even have him to keep me company.
I have to figure out some way to keep myself sane; and I have to find some way to meet people. It was all well and good to be a recluse back home, because despite my hermit-llike qualities, I had friends to call on. Here, I have a couple across the street, but I am easily burned out spending too much time with them — hence, my rush to get my own place.
The lack of a job is what’s really doing me in. Despite my natural laziness, this being at home all day every day is driving me batty.
I think it’s time to look into volunteer work or something until I find a job…
