Will I be deleted? Or will I be stetted?

It is layoff season again in publishing, and I am really squirming this time. If I get guillotined in the rush to cut "head count," as they call it, I will be poor and have to marry Other just to get his health insurance. If I survive, I will lose my mind because our departments are merging, and he will be my boss.

When we first moved to New York, we had no money, lived in a 350-sq.-ft, seventh-floor walkup in a tenement in the honky-tonk section of the Village and survived on air. I had three tiny shelves for my entire wardrobe, and they were mostly empty. I think I owned a pair of jeans, a handful of T-shirts and half-a-dozen undies. Never have been into socks or bras. We borrowed books from the library and went to free events around town, walked everywhere, ate rice and beans, and partied with our equally threadbare friends. Part of me longs to return to the simplicity of that hippie bliss. But I know I can't. I need health insurance and money for the part the insurance doesn't cover. I've got to pay C's tuition. I'm squeamish about borrowed things, including books. And I don't want to be dependent on my kids in my dotage.

So I'm pathetically, abjectly hoping I still have a job when I get back from my trip to SF, and ever so slightly wistful for a world without work.