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A Measure of Progress
February 25, 2006 | Category: Family, It's a Trip
Arizona. CD's company has a hub there. Arizona. A town somewhere between hot and damnhot.
Even though it is a longshot on paper, I know better.
It's karma.
See, I believe that everyone has special kinds of karma.
Bad karma - like my friend whose car has been hit over a dozen times.
And good karma.
My mother, for example, has parking karma. If you have her in the car, you can count on a parking space opening up right in front. Seriously.
A friend of mine has cheap ticket karma. He once went to Paris for a weekend in late summer for $150 roundtrip.
Me? I have job karma. Except for one notable year-long period in my life, I have always been able to find work.
When we first moved into this house, and CD was showing signs of the darkness that later decended, I said to him one morning that maybe I should think about a part-time job.
That afternoon, our new neighbor came out as we were in the yard and offered me (practically a stranger) a part-time job at his company.
CD looked at me and rolled his eyes.
CD does not have job karma. He's brilliant and reliable and talented. Once he is hired, he is the kind of guy that gets lots of promotions and employee of the month or whatever.
When we were pregnant, the law firm he worked at held a big surprise baby shower - for him. He was disgustingly beloved there.
Yep, once hired CD is king of the road.
But getting a new job? ugh.
So it is a very reasonable fear I have that in his quest to make enough money to support this family - we will end up in Arizona. Because these people already know CD. They want to keep him and promote him.
Realizing this the other morning, I began to panic. I started thinking up ways to avoid learning to love cacti.
"Look," I said. "I'll go back to work. Mega will take me back. Then we'll move to Minnesota. A reasonable house, in a good school district. Near a lake and a park. And then you'll look for a new job and once you have one, I'll quit again. How does that sound?"
And his expression turned relieved, and he smiled.
And I breathed and smiled back.
And that lasted for about, honestly, 10 minutes.
Then he looked at me and away. "We can't," he said, finally. "We have to go forward, not back."
"But I don't like Arizona," I argued.
"Maybe I will find something new here."
He put his arm around me, and I rested my face against his chest.
And even though I was a little upset? I was also a little proud. Maybe a lot.
It's taking a long time for us to find our feet, but that moment was a measure of progress. Maybe a small one, but in the right direction.