you brushed me & called me little
(Blake says that to me all the time. I have no idea what he's talking about, but it's darn cute.)
I feel all of 10 years old today. In my velour dress and black patterned tights (given by Grandma, shrunk in the dryer by Mom), in my foggy head and sleepy body, I could be a kid again. This is if you ignore the wedding ring, the tattoos, the extra earrings, and the stretch marks. Most people do.
I've passed through the acute stages of illness all the way into the lee of the storm. Now I'm just gently and pervaisively tired all the time. My lessons are delivered by autopilot. My temper is frayed, but I interact as little as possible so that I'm not tested. I'm not really sure if I make sense in conversation anymore. All I can truly be sure of is that I'd like to go to bed now.
With this lethargy gently swaddling my day, I can almost ignore the painful truth that none of the last-ditch totally-losing-my-mind phone calls I made on Sunday have been returned. Not a one. I guess that other than the Boy & the Blake & my knitting posse & my work friends, I am alone in this world. The sooner I face up to that, the easier it will get to move on, I suppose. It's better once one faces the enormity of it, rather than just fretting aimlessly about the complete implosion of one's social life. And this is the perfect time of year for retail therapy.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*