Tag Archives: health

The Most Important Question Of Your Life

Such  a great find that I had to share. The form it came in had his name link incorrect, so now you can check out his site. Props, Mark. Props.



 by: Mark Manson, on

Everybody wants what feels good. Everyone wants to live a carefree, happy and easy life, to fall in love and have amazing sex and relationships, to look perfect and make money and be popular and well-respected and admired and a total baller to the point that people part like the Red Sea when you walk into the room.

If I ask you, “What do you want out of life?” and you say something like, “I want to be happy and have a great family and a job I like,” it’s so ubiquitous that it doesn’t even mean anything.

A more interesting question, a question that perhaps you’ve never considered before, is what pain do you want in your life? What are you willing to struggle for? Because that seems to be a greater determinant of how our lives turn out.

Everybody wants to have an amazing job and financial independence—but not everyone wants to suffer through 60-hour work weeks, long commutes, obnoxious paperwork, to navigate arbitrary corporate hierarchies and the blasé confines of an infinite cubicle hell. People want to be rich without the risk, without the sacrifice, without the delayed gratification necessary to accumulate wealth.

People want an amazing physique. But you don’t end up with one unless you legitimately appreciate the pain and physical stress that comes with living inside a gym for hour upon hour, unless you love calculating and calibrating the food you eat, planning your life out in tiny plate-sized portions.

People want to start their own business or become financially independent. But you don’t end up a successful entrepreneur unless you find a way to appreciate the risk, the uncertainty, the repeated failures, and working insane hours on something you have no idea whether will be successful or not.

People want a partner, a spouse. But you don’t end up attracting someone amazing without appreciating the emotional turbulence that comes with weathering rejections, building the sexual tension that never gets released, and staring blankly at a phone that never rings. It’s part of the game of love. You can’t win if you don’t play.

What determines your success isn’t “What do you want to enjoy?” The question is, “What pain do you want to sustain?” The quality of your life is not determined by the quality of your positive experiences but the quality of your negative experiences. And to get good at dealing with negative experiences is to get good at dealing with life.

There’s a lot of crappy advice out there that says, “You’ve just got to want it enough!”

Everybody wants something. And everybody wants something enough. They just aren’t aware of what it is they want, or rather, what they want “enough.”

Because if you want the benefits of something in life, you have to also want the costs. If you want the beach body, you have to want the sweat, the soreness, the early mornings, and the hunger pangs. If you want the yacht, you have to also want the late nights, the risky business moves, and the possibility of pissing off a person or ten thousand.

If you find yourself wanting something month after month, year after year, yet nothing happens and you never come any closer to it, then maybe what you actually want is a fantasy, an idealization, an image and a false promise. Maybe what you want isn’t what you want, you just enjoy wanting. Maybe you don’t actually want it at all.

Sometimes I ask people, “How do you choose to suffer?” These people tilt their heads and look at me like I have twelve noses. But I ask because that tells me far more about you than your desires and fantasies. Because you have to choose something. You can’t have a pain-free life. It can’t all be roses and unicorns. And ultimately that’s the hard question that matters. Pleasure is an easy question. And pretty much all of us have similar answers. The more interesting question is the pain. What is the pain that you want to sustain?

That answer will actually get you somewhere. It’s the question that can change your life. It’s what makes me me and you you. It’s what defines us and separates us and ultimately brings us together.

For most of my adolescence and young adulthood, I fantasized about being a musician — a rock star, in particular. Any badass guitar song I heard, I would always close my eyes and envision myself up on stage playing it to the screams of the crowd, people absolutely losing their minds to my sweet finger-noodling. This fantasy could keep me occupied for hours on end. The fantasizing continued up through college, even after I dropped out of music school and stopped playing seriously. But even then it was never a question of if I’d ever be up playing in front of screaming crowds, but when. I was biding my time before I could invest the proper amount of time and effort into getting out there and making it work. First, I needed to finish school. Then, I needed to make money. Then, I needed to find the time. Then … and then nothing.

Despite fantasizing about this for over half of my life, the reality never came. And it took me a long time and a lot of negative experiences to finally figure out why: I didn’t actually want it.

I was in love with the result—the image of me on stage, people cheering, me rocking out, pouring my heart into what I’m playing—but I wasn’t in love with the process. And because of that, I failed at it. Repeatedly. Hell, I didn’t even try hard enough to fail at it. I hardly tried at all.

The daily drudgery of practicing, the logistics of finding a group and rehearsing, the pain of finding gigs and actually getting people to show up and give a shit. The broken strings, the blown tube amp, hauling 40 pounds of gear to and from rehearsals with no car. It’s a mountain of a dream and a mile-high climb to the top. And what it took me a long time to discover is that I didn’t like to climb much. I just liked to imagine the top.

Our culture would tell me that I’ve somehow failed myself, that I’m a quitter or a loser. Self-help would say that I either wasn’t courageous enough, determined enough or I didn’t believe in myself enough. The entrepreneurial/start-up crowd would tell me that I chickened out on my dream and gave in to my conventional social conditioning. I’d be told to do affirmations or join a mastermind group or manifest or something.

But the truth is far less interesting than that: I thought I wanted something, but it turns out I didn’t. End of story.

I wanted the reward and not the struggle. I wanted the result and not the process. I was in love not with the fight but only the victory. And life doesn’t work that way.

People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who get in good shape. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who move up it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainty of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it.

This is not a call for willpower or “grit.” This is not another admonishment of “no pain, no gain.”

This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes. So choose your struggles wisely, my friend


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I’m not ready to say goodbye yet, but here it is. It is time to say goodbye. The gift you have given to me is that it was gradual. I get to say thank you, along with the goodbye. Thank you for teaching me tennis. Thank you for giving me lecture 47, about everything from cleaning my room to having a fight with mom, and then turning it into a life lesson. Thank you for getting down on your knees to wrestle with me, and play horsey with me, and pray with me. Thank you for playing the only song on the piano that you know, and doing it well. At least the first part. Thank you for dinners together, and basketball games on saturday mornings. Thank you for teaching me the old man shuffle when running was too fast for me, at age 9. Thank you most for loving me, believing in me, and never giving up on me.

Thank you for instilling in me a desire to be more than just me. To be part of something bigger.. Greater. Thank you for teaching me to expect and give respect. Thank you for never raising your voice or your hand to me. Thank you for showing me how I should be treated as a wife and mother. And thank you for showing me what a father should be like.

I get to say my thank you’s along with my goodbye’s, but also my I love you’s. So here is an I love you…

I love that you didn’t like Ketchup, only Catsup. I love that you would sit with me out on the porch and watch the birds, and the neighbors, and the cars roar by. I love that you let me watch you milk the cows all those early mornings, and even tried to teach me how to milk one. I never got the hang of it, but you didn’t lose your patience. Not once.  I love that you made up the game, Balloon Volley Ball for our Family Home Evening game times. I love that it turned into a neighborhood favorite. I love that you built the addition on to our home big enough that Balloon Volleyball fit so well in our family room. I love that you aged so well. You look great with a bald head. Like Jean Luke Picard.  I love that you loved mom so well and so deeply. And I love that you loved us 8 kids so completely.  We were your life.

All these Thank You’s and I Love You’s I get to say to you silently as I patted your cheek one last time. As I held your warm hand. As I kissed you on your forehead. Almost a goodbye. But not yet. And I am grateful, Your last breath is your first step into your next life, and I envy you your journey. But still. Still, I am not ready to say goodbye.

Not yet. So I just hold your hand while the hospice nurse is called. I look at your peaceful face when mom needs to be close to you. And still I can’t say goodbye. When the mortuary tenderly and respectfully brings your body to the facility to be readied for the funeral, I know you are gone, but can’t say goodbye. The viewing is hard, because your sweet presence is gone from the body that is in the casket.  I know that.

It isn’t until now, when the man in the suit is ready to close the lid of the casket, and asks that any of us that want to come by your body to say the last goodbye, that I realize that this is it. This is the moment that, whether or not I am ready, I have to…need to…say goodbye.

And so I say goodbye silently.

Goodbye to the past heartaches and pain. Goodbye to Cancer. Goodbye to awful pills and hospital beds and walkers with tennis balls on them. Goodbye to all that. And Thank You for all of who you are and have been. And I love you for being strong through this last part.


Goodbye for now.


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Life Is Not Tidy…

What I don’t want to hear, or feel, is that life is not tidy.  It is painful now. And not witty, or funny, or even positive. I really believe that life feeds us lessons, in joy or pain, that are good. I am simply not at the point now where I can see the lesson.

My dad is dying. Really. He has cancer, and he is dying.

I am past the panic stage. I am in the acceptance stage. All the way until I talk with him.  He took a bad turn this week, and I talked with him today. I could hear the pain in his voice, and the grogginess as the pain medicine battles to take that pain from him. Oh how it hurt to hear!

This man is a good man.  A strong man. And today… well today, I am sad. His pain is undeserved and I am sad. No.  I am ANGRY! I am not a “Why does this have to happen” kind of girl, but this is a close reason to go down that road.  “Bad things happen to good people”… Blah Blah Blah.  I hate this. I am not ready to be rational, or see how this affects me, or the family, or him, for the good.

Yes, this brings me closer to my dad. I mean, I talk with him more now than I ever did before. Yes, it brings me closer to the family, and we have communication and compassion and caring in an open way.  Yes, it lets me have faith that there is something more in the universe. I firmly believe that I will see him again in another place and time.  I just do.   And yes, this gives me the opportunity to be gentle and kind with him. And genuine. Lets not forget genuine. There just doesn’t seem to be time to be sarcastic and witty anymore.

So there. There is the good news.  Now lets just put that aside, because I have tears streaming down my face, and gulping great gobs of air. I just don’t care about all the good stuff. My dad is dying, and I can’t fix it, I can’t stop it, and I can’t do anything about his pain.

I live 8 hours away from him. Yes, there is family there for him, but not me. Ya know? I have this need to be there and watch over him, and care for him. My heart is just aching to help. Yes, I have been out there twice since we found out that it’s spreading, and the chemo isn’t helping. Yes, I’m going out there in November, but it’s just not quick enough.

I have had people say “he’s strong. He will beat this”, and I want to punch them. Well not actually, but emotionally. No, he can’t. The tumors are inoperable, he’s 73, has had cancer 2 times before, and doesn’t want radiation. STOP BEING SO POSITIVE ABOUT THIS! Our family has worked to get past the bouncy, brave face. How bout comfort instead? How bout holding his hand and just being quiet?

OHHHHH. I hurt. That is all. Later is when I will be hopeful and calm and easier about this. But not today. Today is a day to cry. Today is a day that is ok to feel sad. And so I do.

Life Is Not Tidy. And that sucks.


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The Cheese Puffs Are The Schnizz…



Cheese puffs



I love cheese puffs.




I use them as rewards for me, because although they are not healthy, they taste like heaven in a puffy cocoon. I suck on them and can feel them just crush down into my mouth, the air going out of them. All that is left is the flavor that I savor as I finish it up and swallow. Ew? Well, to each her own. That is my reward that lets me do things like …. mop a floor, or write a story, or even perk up when I have made a mistake.




Because mistakes are horrible for me. I happen to believe that I am not allowed to make mistakes. 




I know, no one is perfect, but apparently, this only applies to other people. I am not supposed to make mistakes. I am supposed to do things correctly the first time, and be amazing all the time. I honestly have believed that. So I am very hard on myself when I have a human moment. Sometimes I wallow in it for a time.




So my cheese puffs are there to say, “Dur, it’s just a mistake. Get over it. Other people have moved on, and don’t give a crap about your mistake anymore. No one is thinking about you but you. Have a puff and move on. Sheesh.”  That’s what cheese puffs are about.  Which is why they are so vital to me when I make a mistake with the Bipolar part of my life.




I am not perfect while living with Bipolar. I have to admit it in order for me to move forward with it. It is my human moment part in my life, and it comes up at the most unexpected times.  Like when I stay up too late. Or when I don’t eat correctly, or when I forget to take my medicine with me on a trip. Or when I take my medicine late.  Silly things that have always been part of my life, and have been just part of me being a nerd are now things that trigger Bipolar Nerd.

It’s like my Nerd is magnified 100 times when Bipolar is in charge for the day.






English: Typical Dollar Store, San Francisco

English: Typical Dollar Store, San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like… Not caring if I wear matching shoes. (Erp.)  Or, spending a large amount of money on things that are just silly, from the Variety Store (it seems very important to buy them at the time.)  Or, talking on the phone, texting on the same phone, biting my nails, and forgetting to care if I stop at a Stop sign.  (Cause yeah, I decide to drive while doing all that earlier stuff as well. I DO stop at the sign, but I just don’t care about it.)  Scary? Yes.  Especially because it all seems perfectly normal when I am having an especially …human… bipolar day.  Mistakes could be made when I don’t stay within certain Bipolar rules. So you can see why making a mistake is something I just can’t afford.





And that is hard for me to admit, ergo the Puffs.




I just figured out that I cannot do this alone. You know, living with Bipolar, and living life. So I take medicine and the Bipolar days become Sharon Days. Woot. But I also know that I cannot live life without ……. living life.  I don’t do well with doom and gloom. In fact, my journey is currently consisting of finding the humor in the quirks that happen because of this new development. You know, being in the roller coaster of the ups and downs that are part of living with Bipolar.




So here are some funny things about me when I have an up. I mean a really…up…up.  I happen to get a bit narcissistic. It looks like me looking in the mirror a lot, fixing my hair a lot, and taking five pics of me to get just the right pic so I can post it in Facebook, and make it look like it was a casual look in the camera.  On a normal day, I’d look 3 time in the mirror and take the pic as is.   But on an … UP… day, I will look at myself in the mirror 3 times as many times in a day, but I can’t seem to concentrate on what  I’m looking at, so I will look at my nose for 1 time, and my ear for another, and maybe my mouth. But I cannot look at my entire face or body because, WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT?





Quarters (Photo credit: Jennuine Captures)





In fact that is my entire life on that day.  I am moving so fast that I don’t have time to think because WHO HAS TIME TO PONDER?  I will see a quarter on the ground and stoop to pick it up, but because i am going fast, I don’t have time to stop and pick it up with my fingers, so I miss it.  I stop, turn around and go for it again, and miss it again. This time, surprised that it isn’t in my hand, i squat down so i can get a good grip, and again, I miss it.  Now i’m a bit frustrated, and I think I will simply scoop it up with my hand. Nope. I get a bit of grime from the ground, but no quarter. I finally move on because i am sure that somehow the quarter has been glued to the ground and i am on candid camera.







My daughter is watching the thing perplexedly, comes by behind me, and picks up the quarter for me to see. She is 5 then.  I have been shown up by a five-year old. 🙂 that’s funny.




I need Cheese Puffs in my life to let me know that I have a reward for when my shoes do match, as well. Or for when I recognize that I am getting a bit too …UP…, and I just skip driving altogether. Or when I fold socks and stay put instead of spending money on dollar store toys.




Or for when I get the quarter on the first try. 🙂




I could get disturbed by what the …ups… could do in my life, and I have been. But I am at a place now where I am in control of it, and 99.9 percent of the time you will never know that I do battle with the Bipolar part of my life. I am safe to drive, to shop, and to dress myself. And, I guess, to write a bit. That is a win.




Now where did I put my bag of Cheese Puffs?






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Sorrowful Truth…


Sorrow (Photo credit: piddy77)

What to say when there is nothing to say?  When all my words are taken and the emotion is all that there is? What to say when my heart feels that it will pump so hard it bursts with sadness?  When being doubled over the sobbing is the only way to keep going that day? Nothing.  Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be. It is said in the tears, and the hiccups, and the mournful eyes that tear up when eye contact is made.

And that is just the first day.

What to say on the next day, when the tears have given me a headache the size of a migraine? How to think after being thrown back into sadness as, with a jolt, I remember the heartache and disbelief that came with that day?  Knowing that I am the bearer of the bad news and the bringer of the sorrow.  Knowing that if I had just closed my mouth, the day would still be sunny and bright. That life could still be… life.  And knowing that truth was still more important. What can I say?

If only bad news were just bad news. If only it could be taken in as a logical piece of news, leaving out the emotion and shock. But it can’t, and the day is only starting.

There is still life to live. There are kids to smile at, and drive to school.  There are phone calls to make, with a chipper voice so I can get a break from the hospital bill people. There is eye contact that is made with the lady down the street that just happens to be walking by as I sit on the porch, breathing heavily, to get away from the depression that lay over everything in the sanctuary I destroyed with truth.

It happened, and it can’t be taken back. No matter how much pleading, praying, or looking to the heavens is done. It happened, and every second thought confirms it.  And I can’t get away from it.

What to say, through all of this, knowing that there is a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that? Nothing. There is just doing. Doing one thing at a time, one minute at a time.  And sometimes that is doing nothing. But time goes on, and the pain eventually does turn, first into numbness, and then into a lessening.  And that is the time to talk.  To say something, even if the something is simply talking about how It felt.

Like now.

It happened 2 weeks ago, even if it seems like it happened today, and forever ago.  The loss and sorrow will be there for a long time, but I am not doubled over any more.

This sharing of feelings could be for so many situations, and have been for many situations in my life. I have had loss, and betrayal, and heartache, and that is part of living. The good news is that time can heal the heartache. And so can words. So I say them now…

I’m sorry it happened. To both of us.  I’m sorry that truth hurts. I’m sorry we are still hurting. I will be here for you, and I know you will be here for me. Let’s let love in, and get through this together.  I love you.


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That’s not odd at all….


So I have a friend. A friend like we all do. One that does …. odd … things, but things that amuse us, nonetheless.

For instance, this friend hates to do dishes.  Now most of us hate to do dishes, but my friend takes this to a new level. Like letting the dishes build up and build up. To the point that there are now dishes out on the porch of her house. In Buckets. And also, she would rather write a symphony blindfolded than do dishes at her house.  So they sit, undone, for months.

You would think this is quirky. Or just eccentric.

I don’t find it quirky at all, until I notice that she will do dishes at my house. Or after she throws a party.  THAT’s when I wonder what her rules are, particularly  that make up the game of the dishes avoidance at her house?   As her friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and I come up with this: Just use paper plates and cups and etc…that answer would solve the entire problem…

It never occurred to her. Not once.  It doesn’t make sense to me, and yet….I am entertained.

I have another friend that will do anything it takes to avoid brushing his teeth.  Seriously.  He is an adult, but this friend will use all the trickery in the dental world to keep his teeth from coming into contact with a bristled, hard, instrument. This man uses tongue scrapers for his breath, floss for the flotsom and jetsom that might stick to his gums, and mouthwash to kill the germs. He carries gum and mints with him . He will constantly ask, “How’s my breath?” He definitely does not want gum disease or gingivitis, and yet he will not pick up a toothbrush.

But the avoidance is only confined to his own home.

Again, and as his friend, I immediately look for the quick fix and come up with this: Just brush your teeth with friend/family/loved one time in the car, and brush away!  Use those wisps and portable toothbrush/tooth picks that come in an 8 pack at Albertsons. Spendy? sure, maybe, but so is getting your teeth pulled, and honestly it would make the drive to work more entertaining.

Once more, ..It’s amusing to me. 🙂

Just what is it that makes their behave like a toddler being fed bad-tasting medicine? Practically Swinging their heads wildly around, in any direction, to avoid the pink, icky stuff on a spoon, whether it be antibiotics, a toothbrush, or some dishes? What is it that lets them go against the rules of  society?

Well number one, I wholeheartedly side with a toddler’s behavior.  No one wants that pink, creamy stuff in their mouth, but toddlers are just obvious about it. They are real about it.  They don’t really know or care that it makes their body better, right?  They simply know that at the business end of a spoon lies a messy, stinky and all around nasty liquid that is being fed to them by someone they love.  And they think, “What the?  What did I do to you to get this punishment, eh?”    So they refuse to take it, based on what they are experiencing right then.

(as adults, we probably should try putting ourselves in our toddlers shoes for a minute about that, and take a dose of it as we try to get them to do the same thing. I am banking we would make those same squinched up faces, ourselves. Just thinking of it, I’m making that face now…)

So I have these friends, and they sound … odd, at least, but when I think about them, it’s because I am entertained by their behavior. And then I realize that I have my own ….THING. The thing that I avoid at all costs because of some negative memory, or bad mojo associated with it. And then I think, I, and my friends, we can’t be the only ones that live perfectly normal lives, except for 1 odd thing.  So I start watching and I notice that we are not alone in seeming to have some habit that society asks that we take part in, and yet it seems just too much to do.

And maybe this is where superstitions came around. Maybe people who said things like, “don’t step on a crack, or you’ll break your mothers back” just had the heebee jeebies about stepping on the lines in a sidewalk and didn’t want to look dumb.  Suppose the guy that made up all the superstition that a black cat meaning bad luck…. what if he simply hated cat hair touching him or his things, and so he went out of his way to keep that stuff out of his space?  What a great way to explain his aversion to hair on his clothes and sofas.

I would say that we all could make up a superstition to explain away our oddness.  If I were to make up a suprstition, it would look something like this: Don’t pick up that clutter, or your back will turn to butter.  Or Lounging in a hot tub instead of doing bills will bring good luck. …. Naw. My most fervent superstition that I would make up would be: COOKING CAUSE YOU NEED TO STUNTS YOUR GROWTH.

I hope those stick.

Because it would go a long way to explain why  I Don’t Cook.  I go to great lengths to avoid cooking. I have been known to kick my heels against the floor when dinner time comes. I have also been known to stare at the contents of the fridge, the cupboards, and the freezer with a completely blank look on my face.

Paella koeriernavarra

Paella koeriernavarra (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I will pare, chop, peel, boil, put together, open cans, spread, and open boxes, though.  These things are pushing it, and they will be something I am proud of at the end. Something homemade, to my way of thinking.  But I Do Not Cook.   I have ordered food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.  I have gotten a job just to pay for eating away from the kitchen before. I have hidden pots and pans in the backyard, just so my husband could see that there were not the pots available  to make a meal and we would, indeed, need to order pizza.

Does it make sense? Nope.  Is there a simple solution? Other than cooking, I mean?  I don’t see it, but then again, that seems to be a perspective that my friends should be taking. As for my friends, I watch and chuckle a bit.  And I realize that they are most likely chuckling now about something that I avoid.  And I am glad I am amusing to them. :0)



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I Wilted Today….

I wilted, and I wasn’t even outside.

Today was 93 degrees…In My House. How did that even happen? I had all the windows closed except for the designated “Juuuuust A Hair open, so the cooler will rush out through it, inadvertently hitting us beings and making us smile” window. All the blinds were closed, making us look as if we had a questionable substance shop going on in the place. And we did.

A sweat shop.  A. Sweat. Shop.

I couldn’t leave it behind. It was in the kitchen, when I went to get a popsicle. (The popsicle didn’t help. It just teased my throat a bit.) It was in the bedroom as I decided to lay down for a nap, just to while away the time and hopefully getting a time warp into the future where it is less than 84 degrees in the air.  I couldn’t even leave it behind when I went into the magic room with it’s own cooler (yes it was cooler, but only by a bit, thereby making my sweat cold on my skin. ugh.)

So I wilted.

I could tell because first, my hair stopped loving itself. It lay limply on my head, and refused to play nice. It schlumped around, throwing a temper tantrum, and let me tell you, it did a good job. Hair sticking to my scalp in odd places, and jumping up in the air in other spots. Rude.   Then, my clothes got wind of the hair going AWAL. I know this because they started to climb, ride, and stick where they had no business being in the first place. Surprising, when I got up to answer the door, and I had to do a quick talking to for all of it. Blech.  Next came, well, my temper. It rose, and bubbled and boiled. Just ask my husband. He was on the short end of it. When we were in nap mode, my temper let him know in no uncertain terms, that he had sticky elbows, large arms, and WILL YOU GET YOUR FOREHEAD OFF MY PILLOW?  (he just looked at me and shook his head, but non-threateningly. He is used to that skill after 21 years.) Lastly, my wilt became complete when I found myself laying on the sofa of the main floor, and just staring at the ceiling. Willing the time to go by. Waiting for…something to break up the heat, and being just fine with the sheen of moisture that popped out all over my neck and face. (The highlight of the afternoon came from the texts that were sent to me. You know who you are. Thank you.)

At 9:00 PM, the temperature dropped to roughly 85 degrees, and I have felt like someone watered my spirit with gatorade and happiness. Does it matter that tomorrow will be just about as hot? Nope. Because today has taught me to live in the moment. My hair agrees. My clothes are calm again, and I have energy. Thank you, anti-wilt fairy. Remind me to make you some brownies. I will make them, of course, when it isn’t so hot in the kitchen. Check back next week. Whew!


Posted by on June 20, 2012 in family, Life, Mom, Uncatagorized


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