This is one of those "Thank God I'm not her!" posts. You're welcome.

I apologize in advance for the free-form dump of hysteria. If anyone follows astrology, then you'd know this is a really bad time. Planets clashing, oppositions and squares and changes, Mercury retrograde, something to do with Saturn and general interstellar nastiness.

Fortunately I don't admit to believing any of that crap. Except here's a quick Life As An Artist stress-test reality snapshot, kids: when you're self-employed, you need to be self-disciplined. Motivated. Your time is yours to burn or waste. Sometimes it's so, so easy to waste.

So I've postponed my solo show a few times. Now it's scheduled for November and it is piggybacking on my studio's anniversary celebration. I couldn't wish for a better opportunity, because it'll run through January and hey, a little thing called the Olympics is right around the corner. Except I've done nothing. For months.

Consequently, I'm stressed that I now have eight weeks in which to produce ten paintings. Usually these paintings take me, oh, two to three weeks.

I'm a little stressed.

I'm stressed about The Economy – who isn't? – and even though the pundits assert that things turning around, there continues to be reduction in the net checking account and I've had a few embarrassing "Oh, well, can I use VISA?" moments when paying by debit card.

I'm stressed that my son's school is already sending home a pile of fundraising things and it's only the first week. I haven't found a diplomatic way to turn them down and my husband hates it when I tell my son that we're poor (we're not, really; I just want to keep him humble).

I'm stressed when I gently explain to Jack on the way home from school (he walks and I push my bike; we're down to one car) the financial realities of why we can't buy 20 coupon entertainment books so he can get a 7 foot balloon as a reward prize. I wish I had a tape recorder for these conversations, because the one about him starting a tree farm with the $400 in his bank account (buy land, plant tree, sell acorns and tree, buy more land) was stellar. It almost made me unstress.

I'm stressed that he spends so much time online playing Roblox because in many ways it's easier than spending time with him.

I'm stressed at the studio that my sink backs up and they can't call a plumber. It's not in the budget. There isn't a budget.

I'm stressed because I haven't picked up a paintbrush in two weeks.

I'm stressed at home for other reasons. My husband is going traveling a lot soon and really, that's not a big deal because it shortens the time that I spend stressing in the studio. Shortens but also compounds, I guess.

I'm stressed that when I opened the cupboard, there's no Kraft Dinner.

I'm stressed that I halfheartedly looked at project management jobs online today.

I'm stressed that it's after 7 and my husband is still at work.

I'm stressed that I’m kind of glad he is.

I'm stressed that every family seems to be facing similar issues.

I'm stressed that I don't seem to see my friends as much as I should (Facebook doesn't count).

I'm stressed that everyone on Facebook seems to be having as rough a week as I am having.

I'm stressed that I spend a disproportionate time reading horoscopes trying to ascertain whether this is going to get better or worse and when.

I'm stressed that I consume a fair amount of wine doing so. I should really have bought more Kraft Dinner.

I'm stressed that the big art festival who used my image on all the publicity material didn't credit me and even cropped out my signature. Oh, never mind stressed: I'm pissed.

I'm stressed that I'm so inert, even though I run a lot and bike a lot. Never mind; that's not rational: I just feel inert.

I'm stressed.

Hey, I almost feel better! It's like a litany or a rosary or a penance or something.

Except now I'm stressed that I just put this all on you.

Don't stress. I am sure that, like Saturn past Uranus, this too shall pass.