I woke up feeling fairly sheepish and defeated. Then did a run that was nothing less than a miracle. In which I felt beautifully good the whole time. Usually I don’t feel good until minute 20, but this time, outta the gate, it was gorgeous. Perfect. Even though there were many long hills. Even though it was windy. The wind was like air conditioning and I went farther in 30 minutes than normal, which tells you that this first book rejection is really working through me. Clearly, I needed to shed off the shitty.
Still, I am feeling today that most of my solutions reside in the sofa.
My wrists hurt from crocheting.
I need new music for running, though am still able to get decent mileage out of We Were Promised Jetpacks.
I am angry at the following:
- Michele Bachmann continuing to open her word-hole
- the abrupt ending of the 10 Things I Hate About You television series
- my terrible housewifery
- that every laundry basket is currently being used to house clean laundry nobody puts away
- Pablo’s hip dysplasia
- people who think paying fair taxes amounts to class warfare
- my genetic tendency toward low self-esteem,
- L.L. Bean sending me catalogs as if I’m ancient
- my upper lip melasma
This is all after 2.68 miles, mind you. Imagine that bile had I parked it on the couch.
I need to think about good things.
Like puppies, And pecan pie.
Kyle Chandler winning an Emmy.
Hearing David Levithan and Brian Farrey read.
Meeting Kirstin Cronn-Mills live in the flesh.
Hot guys at the YMCA and tall glasses of coconut milk.
Homemade salsa and LUSH cosmetics.
Halloween decorations with Matilda.
Oaxacan tinwork and owl necklaces.
That minute when you are sitting in a restaurant, before the people you’re meeting arrive – how you could be anybody at all to the waitstaff around you, in those moments alone while you pretend to be occupied by the menu, waiting, and then the people you’re meeting arrive, and smile at you, and you remember who you really are and know that this is exactly who you are, and who you should be.