Home safe
I’m home again, after flights so blessedly uneventful that there’s nothing to say about them. (My favorite kind, believe me.)
I blurted a great sleep-logged welter of stories (how did I pick up so many stories in two short days?), descriptions, impressions, observations, and half-made plans to David while he patiently put me to bed for a nap. He looked me over judiciously once I was finally down. “You look… more alive, more enthusiastic, than I’ve seen you in a while.”
“I do? I feel headachy and exhausted.”
“Well, that too,” he admitted. “But… I’m impressed.”
I have a lot to consider before St. Patrick’s Day (which is, I am told, roughly when I can expect to hear news, good or bad). Most of the consideration will perforce take place offline, so if I’m quiet for the next few whatevers, you know what I’m up to.
But I will say this: I do think I’m still in the running, grass-greenness and all, because I didn’t embarrass myself and I definitely didn’t pick the wrong job to apply for. I also think that it would be nice to be able to put myself through a timewarp and magically come up with five years’ experience doing some of the things they want to do—but I could manage without it, on the whole, if they’ll take me on faith that some of the things I happen not to have done yet, I can actually do.
And if they’ll give me a hand when I need it, which I would. But I think they’d be all right with that. I complimented the library dean in the exit interview on the organization he’s leading, and I meant every word I said. My gut (which, as I may have remarked, is wiser than I am) is leaning back comfortably, remarking on what a fine group of people that is—and my gut is fairly chary with recommendations that warm.