I finished compiling my Viable Paradise application and sent it off. Now I wait. And wait. And wait. While I’m waiting, I’ll wait. And then, when the waiting gets too much? I’ll bite my nails, tap my feet, and wait some more. Then I’ll wait again.
I hate waiting.
I know that the odds are stacked against me. A lot of people apply, and there are only a limited number of slots. I know that it doesn’t matter in the long run, and that if I don’t get in this year and I really want to do it, I can try again next year. But that doesn’t really help. In fact, it makes me more nervous.
If I get accepted, I’ll hem and haw. I’ll resist telling Elli (my wife) because I’m not sure she’ll agree that it’s worth doing, even though we’ve talked about it and she’s the one who told me I should try. Then I’ll freak out about the expense, even though we can afford it.
If I don’t get accepted, I’ll be crushed for a few days. Then I’ll pick myself up and get back to work.