At the Crazy Train Depot

Mrs. Hufflepuff sent me an e-mail inviting me to join the Woman's Council of Realtors. I am marginally interested. Actually, marginally is a stretch. Actually, interested at all is a stretch. I went to one meeting and found the speakers to be offensive. Plus, it struck me that there were more men there--trying to pick up women--than women. Plus, why have a "woman's" council? I mean, why not just have a council?

Jane is now treasurer of the local chapter, which nets her a trip to Boston in two weeks. She has also gone on a few other trips in the name of the WCR, but from what I can tell, that's where the membership money goes--trips for officers. I am being cynical, I know. I am sure they do something else in the community and I am just not seeing it.

The truth is I don't know what I want to do--but not about WCR necessarily--I mean about life in general. I say this often and it gets me nowhere. My inability to make a decision about my future is weighing heavily, but I am still not moving forward. Nor am I committing to any new path that might move me in any direction. It is an endless frustrating cycle that I can ride to the end of my life if I am not careful, which does nothing for my anxiety about the fact I have yet to make a decision about my future. See how this works? It is paralyzing.

I want off this crazy train. I am not sure the WCR is less of a crazy train. Perhaps it is parked at the Crazy Train depot, and it is one path I can look at. But then again, maybe I could hop on, become an officer and get a trip to Hawaii out of it.