At 5:30 this morning, I shuffled outside looking like an extra from The Walking Dead, accompanied by a Chihuahua who apparently believes the United States Postal Service should adopt her bathroom schedule.
Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays Maggie’s Mother from the swift completion of her appointed rounds.
Single Dog Moms don’t get sick days.
We don’t get to roll over and tell our partners, “Honey, it’s your turn.”
We get out of bed, put on something vaguely resembling appropriate clothing, and escort a tiny, four-legged dictator into the darkness so she can investigate every blade of grass before deciding whether she’d actually like to pee.
And then we come back inside and attempt to resume being human.
Unfortunately, being human wasn’t going particularly well this morning.
I’ve been unemployed since August, following a layoff I never saw coming. After 20 years in the insurance industry, I find myself navigating a job market that apparently hasn’t received my résumé’s memo about my experience.
This morning, I learned that a position I’d interviewed for went to someone else.
Not just someone else. Someone I used to work with.
That one stung.
I know my abilities. I know what I bring to the table. What I don’t know anymore is whether the job market is willing to pay what I believe my experience is worth.
And when you’re 56, unemployed, and watching your retirement savings become your emergency income, that uncertainty gets loud.
The funny thing about financial anxiety is that even good news can make you nervous.
Today, Fidelity notified me that my retirement withdrawal is on its way.
Relief, right?
Well, yes.
For approximately eleven seconds.
Then my brain started calculating how long the money would last, whether I’d need another withdrawal, and what would happen if I never found another job.
Welcome to catastrophizing, where every worst-case scenario comes with complimentary admission and absolutely no refreshments.
At some point, I decided I was too old and overweight to pursue a lucrative career in exotic dancing.
So naturally, I considered an alternative.
A 95-year-old billionaire.
Preferably one with a fondness for short, sassy women with curves, questionable eyesight, and a completed estate plan.
I figure if his vision is sufficiently poor, he might mistake me for a 25-year-old.
Of course, the moment I open my mouth, he’ll realize he’s dealing with a woman who has decades of life experience and a highly developed BS detector.
But perhaps he’ll appreciate my personality.
Or at least leave me enough money to buy Maggie a swimming pool.
Speaking of Maggie…
While I was contemplating my future as a billionaire’s much-younger wife, my little Chihuahua emerged from beneath the covers, planted both front paws on my leg, and looked directly into my face.
Those enormous brown eyes.
That tiny little face.
Then, apparently satisfied with her inspection, she crawled back beneath the covers and pressed herself even tighter against my leg.
And that’s when the tears threatened to return.
Because here’s what Maggie knows.
She knows she’s safe.
She knows she’s loved.
And somehow, she seems to know that when Mama is sad, her job is to snuggle a little closer.
She doesn’t understand unemployment, retirement accounts, or the peculiar humiliation of having to sell yourself to employers after decades of proving yourself in the workplace.
She doesn’t know that I’m frightened.
She just knows I’m her person.
And when her person needs her, she shows up.
Even if her person spent the morning resembling a zombie and seriously considering marrying a visually impaired nonagenarian.
I don’t know what the next few months will bring.
I don’t know when I’ll find another job, how much financial juggling I’ll have to do, or whether that billionaire is currently accepting applications.
But right now, there’s a warm little Chihuahua glued to my leg.
She trusts me to take care of her.
And today, she’s taking care of me.
Maybe that’s enough for this moment.
Although if anyone knows a single 95-year-old billionaire with cataracts and a heated swimming pool, my inbox is open.
Maggie insists on interviewing him first. 🐾💜
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