I won't lie to y'all, once someone lays down some serious damage on your bank account, it basically ruins any other thoughts you planned on having that weekend. I want to say I took it in stride and moved on with grace and elegance, but the near-empty bottle of rum and overturned Coke Zero bottles on my dining room table are a living testament to the opposite.
I'll tell you about my (somewhat) embarrassing (pretty darn) fun weekend tomorrow. But for now, I'm just a bundle of stomach-tightening, hand-wringing, worst-case-scenario-imagining nerves. I have a rough idea of how much this misery is going to cost us but I'm worried it could balloon to somewhere massively uncomfortable. I also have no idea how long it'll take - and let me tell you, a bunch of blue-collar workers sticking around your house to root around in your pipes is a sexy concept that is born of and exists only in pornography.
I've been being very even about this whole affair but I'm getting that nervous and nauseous feeling that comes whenever I feel like I'm just "playing" at being a grown-up. Why did I think I could handle this? We were cleaning out the basement in preparation for the workers tomorrow and my face must have been a mask of stress. TB came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I leaned back into him just a little.
"Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"You can't know, you know. We might not be."
"I know. But we will."
So I'll trust in that tonight and hope it gets me through tomorrow, and beyond. Sleep well.