3-21 Go

I've got this 1970s crap pop psych going on in my head and I can't make it stop:

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Except that I've got it in reverse. In a sense, for all the years I considered going to work at the Mothership—even before there was a building called the Mothership—for all the times I looked for my place there, for all the times I'd decided I'd fare better on my own or at least at some distance from there, for all the weighing of the Pros (near infinite) and Con's (just a couple), in about an hour from the time I'm writing this, I'll officially be an employee of the Mothership.

So today doesn't so much feel like the 'first day of the rest of my life' (how goddamn trite were the 1970s anyway?) as it feels like the last day of The Long Flirtation.

Maybe there have been too many First Days for me, or maybe I'm one of those that believes we really only get one beginning and one end. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm one of those earthy-nutty-crunchy-Northern-Californians who doesn't like to rubberstamp things and call them absolutes.

No destinies. No ordained passages.

Or maybe I just have butterflies.