In real life, I've been avoiding my computer.
In real life, I'm nauseous from starting back on metformin. Eating is again a chore, not something I enjoy.
In real life, I'm fighting for my life because I don't want to be a type 2 diabetic so young.
In real life, I'm watching my kids quickly grow up and realizing my time with them is too damned short.
In real life, I'm thinking about my father who died at 67 and I fret that I'll follow in his footsteps.
In real life, I've been sitting on my front stoop, watching the neighbor's relationship with her teenage daughter blow up in her face. I hope she won't be watching the same drama at my house from her front stoop in 10 years.
In real life, I want more time. More time to parent, read, write, create, sleep, dream, live.
In real life, I want to write a book that 99.9% of you would either never read or be too embarrassed to admit you read. Refer to previous point about time.
In real life, I'm packing to go scuba diving, but I'm terrified. Ever since my near-drowning 10 years ago, my dives are overshadowed by a lingering anxiety. I worry that someday the anxiety will take away the joys of the underwater world.
In real life, I'm running nine miles and pumping iron six days a week.
In real life, I'm tired.
In real life, I'm here. Just not here. You know?
Speaking of not being here, my inaugural post at Buy-Her.com is up today. Go over and check it out. Nothing spectacular, but hey, I'm writing! Somewhere!