Today I'm sitting in my office, which is open and sunny, trying to work through a pain that threatens to level me to the ground.
I'm trying to be mindful, everyone tells me to "sit with it." Let the pain exist inside you without trying to push it away.
So I sit with it. I realize it isn't just pain, it's fear. I feel adrenaline course through my veins and pool in my hands. It is hard to type.
My marriage ended.
I joke about it. I tell people about the strangers I meet online and shrug, "I'm dying alone."
One time, my phone auto-corrected "alone" to "alive."
I'm dying alive.
Bad news: I'm dying. Good news: Not like that—feeling vital organs slowly fail one by one, feeling pieces of me grow weak from disuse, a body unrecognizable but lauded for it's ability to endure. Not like that.
Not today, not in my office.
1. Leaving the house Friday night, sans children, eating a cupcake. I spoke to Dan just long enough to tell him that a cat had vomited on the rug, and that he should probably just throw the whole damn thing away. (I hated that rug.)
2. Spending a...embarrassingly significant amount of time reading a blog written by a cashier at Target. Reevaluating my stance on soulmates.
3. Teaching Clara the lyrics to Meghan Trainor's "Me Too."
Nope. Don't even think about shaming me. I said no regrets and I mean it. Plus, she absolutely nails this line: "What's that icy thing hanging round my neck? That's gold. Show me some respect."