So MadWire, my main client who made up 90% of my income, let all of their freelancers go two days ago.
And…there goes that writing life…
I am a full-time, professional freelance writer. I spend each day waking up, meditating, snacking on breakfast and tea and then tumbling off into my own little weird fantasy world concocted entirely in my head before I start to summon courage, to fortify defenses. I am terrified daily of what I must do, and daily what I must do enthralls me. Others wake, drudge, be where and who they are supposed to be when and how they are supposed to be, for somebody else. I schedule time to volunteer at the Fort Collins Bicycle Cooperative because if I didn’t, I would go crazy for lack of social interaction. (Also, I love the people there. And bikes.)
I am so. Fucking. Lucky.
In a way I’ve been carving this path for years. This freelance project here, that freelance project there. At one point my best friend gave me a wake-up call. We were emailing back and forth about a social issue and he said he was thinking wow, this really bugs me, I should write about it. Then he said, I thought, no, YOU should write about it.
YOU being me. Me being the writer. Writing being the love of my life.
My best friend had it spot on, and he called me out on it. To be honest I don’t remember if I wrote about that issue. But for the first time I put together a writing resume, and a portfolio. I have no idea if this is what other writers do…and now, scratching my head and thinking about it, I probably should get some idea…but I sent it out. I started making calls. And incredibly, in March of 2013, something amazing happened. MadWire Media, one of the fastest growing companies in the world, contacted me. They wanted me to blog for them.
I think it was probably driven in part by sheer need for bloggers, but they hired me, and I started writing for them. In early September I parted ways with the world of working for other people, and told MadWire I needed to work for them full-time. Obligingly they loaded up my client schedule.
The work isn’t rocket science. I write mostly marketing copy. But I’m writing. For a living. When I paid my roommate my half of our rent this month he asked if it felt good to make that payment entirely from writing.
It didn’t feel good. It felt epic. Spectacular. Absolutely amazing. Experiencing triumph through what feels to me like coddling my own narcissism leaves me feeling dumbfounded. And really, really excited. Wait: I get paid? To write? To do what I love? What I love most of all? Really? This can’t possibly be reality.
Apparently, it can.
One of my favorite authors (thanks to my incredible mother) is Annie Dillard. Her writing is beautiful; her writing ABOUT writing is mind-blowing. She wrote: “Get to work. Your job is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair.”
Right on, Annie. In about ten minutes I get to start cranking that flywheel. Oh, I am lucky, lucky, lucky indeed. And so grateful.
I have a stepdog. I call him that because he’s my roommate’s dog. My roommate has a girlfriend who isn’t me, and we get along okay but we’re not good friends or buddies or whatever. When we end up in common spaces: the kitchen or the living room or whatever, we talk and we get along well. My roommate is a pretty cool guy: sharp, analytical, highly intelligent. Studying to get his undergrad in bio at CSU right now, to go on to graduate school. I met him on craigslist: because I needed a roommate or a ludicrously cheap place to rent, and he needed a roommate to keep his rent down. We live in a beautiful condo in Southwest Fort Collins, just on the edge of town to the point that going anywhere besides the local 7/11 feels like taking a trip “into town”. Especially without a car (I’m on a bike).
Tonight I am joined on the living room futon by both pets. My ever faithful wonderful Roo on my right, Stryder on my left. Stryder is part pointer, part hound, part other things. Possibly lots of other things. (Roo, for the record, is some kind of calico.) Stryder is medium-sized, sleek, mostly dark-haired, and barks. Loudly. Especially at men. This is annoying at times but mostly is awesome as far as I am concerned. Burglars? Rapists? Screwball meth-heads? Don’t need to worry about them: anyone ever tried to come in here without being myself or my roommate would receive a healthy greeting from Stryder. Stryder has not, to my knowledge, ever bitten anyone. He never bit me. Or anyone of my friends who’ve come over. His bark, though, is scary, and people react appropriately. They hand over treats or bits of kibble I’ve given them preemptively even as I shout over the racket to just ignore him & he’ll settle down. One of my friends, who has trained dogs, wasn’t having it. He was down-staying Stryder within moments of his first meeting. It was like a Zen kind of experience: here was this dog who went from beserker-alert mode to quiet, gentle and listening for commands. And my friend executed: authority (no you will NOT get treats if you continue to bark to me) and mastery (you will obey these commands, because I am the master and you are the dog). Stryder followed his cues faithfully, and it didn’t surprise me in the least. He’s an extremely intelligent dog, and my roommate has trained him very, very well. The barking thing seems to embarrass my roommate a bit, and while to me it’s a great alarm I can commiserate: nobody besides my friend who’s trained dogs has handled Stryder’s “greeting” well. They believe me when I say he won’t bite them, and give him copious amounts of treats and kibble in desperate attempts to quiet him.
So I call Stryder my stepdog. I love him dearly & he is a great dog. My roommate has gone to significant lengths to train him well. He is alert, sweet, loving, friendly, appreciative and welcoming to me. He makes me feel safe here alone. And I reciprocate a bit: I give him bits of people food here and there, and we take walks together. We’ve become buddies. When I come home and Stryder is waiting on the couch he goes wild for my arrival as though I am my roommate. Almost. An d then he runs upstairs, to await the arrival of his master. Stryder is sitting here now and keeps regarding me carefully. I’m positive he knows I am writing about him. He keeps staring down the computer, and then kind of elegantly regards me, like, you’d better get this shit right.
Probably, he just wants some of the sharp cheddar I keep slicing. But I like to think it’s because he enjoys the company as much as I do.
If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.
Courtesy of the Dalai Lama XIV. I enjoy quotes that make me smile and think too. Happy Birthday to me! I am 32 years old today.
I’m a cycle commuter. I don’t own a car so I get around town on my bike, primarily: a gorgeous black-and-grey Trek 4300 I repossessed from my sister’s ownership when she proved she was not in fact moving back to Colorado anytime soon (seven years or so later, she’s still in Charlotte, NC, so I was right). Before I started riding this cycle it was gathering dust nicely in our mother’s garage. And riding my beautiful Bianchi cruiser everywhere: a gorgeous bike and tons of fun to ride but probably weighs twice what the Trek does. And by commuter/road cyclist standards the Trek is a hefty bike.
Most of the time it does exactly whatever I would like it to do…its tubes and tires are good, brakes work, it’s the right size for me, the saddle is comfortable and I hate the grips, but not enough to do anything about them. I volunteer a few hours each week at the Fort Collins Bike Co-Op and anytime I need mechanical work done one of the wrenches there is kind enough to throw it up on one of the stands and work merrily away on its brakes, its gears, whatever else I’m whining about at the time. Last week, though, it went on a few unplanned adventures.
I was riding to work one day in the bike lane minding my own business when out of a roadside residence a longboarder emerged & started skating along the sidewalk next to the bike lane. He was fairly collegiate looking which in this part of the world translates to sexy/casual. It’s summertime so gym shorts, a CSU tee, flip-flops, thin muscular athletic build. Floppy hair, tanned limbs, easy stance as he rode along. I rode along admiring the scenery; Fort Collins is beautiful at 6:40 in the morning. The kid was a few score feet in front of me, and I’d easily pass him soon.
Until he decided to skate directly into my lane at the last possible moment, nearly colliding with me and my Trek. We would probably have taken him out, but all of us would have crashed, and I’m really grateful I had the foresight to look behind me just as I caught up to him, just in case he did…exactly what he did. If traffic had been coming I would have crashed into him instead of swerving in front of an SUV; a bike-board-dumb-kid-and-Dondi entanglement is substantially preferred to being mown over by traffic. Luckily for the two of us, and our machines, there was no traffic, so I slammed on my brakes, rang my bell, said a few unsavory words I’m sure, and skirted around him just as I caught his sleepy-but-widening eyes as his head snapped back to stare me down. In my cycling jacket and Oakleys (sans helmet though) he probably thought I was just another asshole Fort Collins cyclist. He scared the hell out of me though, and he didn’t look ONCE behind him before riding into my lane. Which was, of course, occupied by me, at THAT exact moment. I never see other cyclists out and about at that time of day at Taft Hill Road nearing Mulberry and perhaps he hasn’t either. Considering that if I’d been just a few seconds faster we would have irrevocably become entangled, though, and he WAS jumping into MY lane, perchance maybe a cautionary look behind would’ve been smart? I didn’t have time to discuss this with him; I was hauling to work and our near miss ended up being an actual miss so I just kept on going.
Maybe he’ll think about it more next time. So another day, I was off from work and had a meeting near the middle of the city, just southeast of the university, and then a date –yes, really, Dondi had a date, miracles do happen- in Old Town. It started to rain when I was leaving my appointment and a bus was going by (hurray!) so I jumped onto it and headed for Old Town. I texted my date to let him know I’d be there shortly –he and I were kind of playing it by ear, as I wasn’t sure how long my appointment would take- and he responded in kind, and I was watching the storm coming down through the bus’ windshield when the driver turned on the wipers and…
My bike’s handlebars were blocking the passenger-side wiper blade. I didn’t think much of it when I threw my bike on the bus…the bike racks on the buses are awesome, but a little rickety, and bikes do drift a little…but when the wiper caught my bike it actually LIFTED it out of the rack and nearly flipped it over entirely. The driver and I locked huge wide open eyes in the rearview mirror. Our mouths, similarly, were mirrors: hinged hanging open, perfect oval shapes.
“Did you see that?” He asked. I nodded. He pulled the bus over at the next stop and I got out, put my bike on the next opening on the rack, further from the windshield –it’s common courtesy to rack your bike as close as possible to the bus but in these circumstances that clearly wasn’t safe and besides, who else was going to be shuttling their bike around in a downpour?- and jumped back aboard. The driver was still stunned. I was a little, too, but I was nervous to meet my date and with the weather acting the way it was I’d closely resemble a drowned rat by the time I got to the restaurant, so I didn’t think any more of it.
I’ll have to regale my wrenches with my heroic bike tales the next time they are kindly greasing my chain, tightening my headset, retooling my gears or doing any of the other million wonders they do to keep my bicycle running. I can’t believe that after being picked up and slammed back down onto the bus’ bike rack it’s totally fine, but it is. That little Trek is awesome; I am really grateful every day for my awesome commuter.
My date didn’t mind that I resembled a waterlogged varmint. He’s a cyclist.
i often gaze upward, as
sky holds such possibility
vague rumbles from my
growling belly say i probably forgot -breakfast? lunch?
lost in my inner world; i often hum or whistle
just a few notes, not to upset anyone but
songs i like i’ll sing aloud
whoever the accidental audience
dad is dead but he always said i was
SO BEAUTIFUL and. it. stuck. mom says
i’m the scribe, and so i write, my family
sewn between the lines, and pages
i can be dramatic, social, attention-seeking but
as quickly solitary, needing space, seeming brooding
my best friend says he loves
my giant heart
my climbing partner admires my
unabashed optimism. my
spirit calls out to all living things so i
brand myself Buddhist
i love autumn, bright-burnished sunbeams painting
the long afternoons around
local crags before heading to
the Sun for a pint, and dinner
i know me a little, this
lover of all
liker of many
close to few but
taking flight holds such
promise to me, i stretch this love with
yogic notions, stuntkite flights, rock climbing and
aerial arts, my Buddhist monk friend calls me dakini
you are simply
you and that’s perfectly enough, but i like
my face caressed, my smile held, my odd little
sense of humor, expansive when released, but it takes awhile, awakened
with your laughter
you are preferably
taller, with dark hair and light eyes, but not
necessarily, you take my love
in stride and hold
your own and together we
enjoy hourslong conversation and deepened silent moments, time
together become better by time
apart and warm, enlivened spaces
in our lives for
each careful, comfortable other
“The phrase sour grapes is an expression originating from “The Fox and the Grapes,” one of Aesop’s Fables. It refers to pretending not to care for something one wants, but does not or cannot have.” -Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sour_grapes
I arrived at work this morning somewhat frantic, my mania involving mass-manufactured caffeine, a glance at the clock to tell me I was two minutes late already, and another cast at the call queue to notice we were thirteen deep on incoming and eleven on outbound callbacks. My supervisor today was Joe*, the big boss, my campaign’s account manager, who sported dirty-blond hair that seemed in need of washing about fifty percent of the time, and today, for good measure, an old tee shirt advertising a heavy-metal band that was about a size and a half too small for him and dirty jeans. He sported attractively-framed glasses as always, however, and a similarly omnipresent aloof attitude. My prevailing thought at
all of this was a reckless shit, a word banned from the call center floor along with any other profanity.
My current job lacks any of the lucrative trappings of any of my former employment situations: benefits, the hopes of a raise, mobility of any kind, personal satisfaction. About the closest to satisfaction we get are the ten-minute breaks snuck out in the alley, we smokers, sucking in tar and nicotine and spewing rants about work, home, life, bills, etc. And yet…it’s a job. It gives me something to do every day and almost pays my bills (but not quite. One of these days I’m sure I’ll be blogging from the library and the Internet will be the ONLY way to get ahold of me, as Verizon will have shut me down for good until I can pay my bundled phone/Internet bill.) For now I’m grateful to be employable, and employed, in an economy that doesn’t favor even those with resumes as comprehensive as my own. One of my few real bragging rights in the post-global economic meltdown world.
Mania compounded as I sat down in a cube next to my big blue-eyed, closed-cropped, well-muscled, completely adorable colleague, who aped at me as he finished a call, clicking his mute button to tell me, between phrases of apology and remuneration to the person at the other end of the phone, “Massive production issues with the Picayune Blotter”, “Power outage last night stopped paper production and half the papers didn’t get printed until this morning”, “Delivery pushed out until 1pm” and “oh and we’re down too”, meaning one of the computer applications we used internally to access client accounts was “undergoing routine maintenance” as I heard him tell a client. “Undergoing routine maintenance” is a well-known euphemism for “it’s fucked up, and tech support doesn’t know when it’ll be fixed, but they know it’s a major problem creating huge backloads of work, so they are busting ass to get it fixed”. Of course, we never tell clients that…
The Picayune Blotter** was probably the largest of eight publications my campaign worked on, all owned by a corporate media group that had spent the past year and a half or so alienating a substantial amount of its customer base in an industry already experiencing sharp declines. With the increasing accessibility and popularity of the Internet, newspapers just aren’t as important anymore, as evidenced by the relatively recent shuttering of one major publication without any warning at all in my area. Interestingly, the company I work for specializes in providing customer service and other support services specifically for the newspaper industry. As I’m sure they want to stay in business, they’re diversifying, but the bulk of the services we provide is to newspapers. This makes it especially interesting when subscribers, who call a local number to their area, start trying to talk about the weather or local news or politics, about which I, often having little idea about the news local to MY area, haven’t the slightest clue. Also, I’m trying to handle the call as quickly and politely as possible, so I don’t really care all that much about anything other than dealing with their issue…and taking the next call. During busy days I spend the bulk of my time feeling like I’m dodging bullets, foxholed up in my little nondescript beige cubicle. During slower days I remove my mala and do recitations between calls. I try not to invest more mental energy than it takes to be polite and pleasant and keep my head down.
Today was going to be different. Already one of the busiest days for the area of the country from which calls came into my campaign, our busy-ness was further compounded by the production problems for the Blotter and the tech problems (“routine maintenance”, as I heard one colleague after another drone apologetically into their headsets) on our end. I sighed and took my first call, from an angry man calling the free publications distributed weekly by the Blotter and its sisterhood of fellow area papers “litter” and denouncing their return to his street after calling for a month several months ago to get it to stop…only to see it start up again!!! “If this doesn’t quit,” he rasped, clearly disturbed on many levels by this reappearance of the Blotter-Trotter or whichever of the free papers it was, “I’m going to sit out there myself and wait for the carrier!” Whenever the carrier is threatened by a subscriber I can’t help but think of Granny Clampett and her shotgun…and so I apologized, cajoled, hung up and took the next call, from a subscriber demanding that I “call up my delivery boy and get his butt outta bed!” Oh, it was going to be a GOOD day…
I spent half of my time at work apologizing for the power outage and the other half doing the usual…taking payments, inputting vacation stops, accounting for idle threats and less-than-idle threats. I took calls from bewildered subscribers who hadn’t received their papers in months, bewildered subscribers who hadn’t received their papers in weeks, and bewildered subscribers whose papers were an hour late. I leave work every day shaking my head. Today I left shaking it vigorously. It hit me for sure when I got home: sour grapes. Most of my callers have an almost contentious tone to their voices: they already had it in for me, and all I wanted to do was help them. That was my job; the number they called was, in fact “customer service”. So often it seems like “outlet for general fury”. People who are pissed off about their lives, their jobs, their families, their kids, whatever, and then their newspaper is late. GOD DAMN IT!!! So it all gets unleashed…on the poor soul who answers their call to Customer Service. Damage Control. Carrier Protection. Anger Management from a thousand miles or so away.
We get paid just above minimum wage. I’m pretty sure our salary grade should be closer to that of a clinical therapist. But that’s just my sour grapes, I guess.
*not his real name
**totally fictitious name for purposes of this post
affection, business as usual, children, cool kids, evolution, excitement, exhilaration, gratitude, growing up, happiness, humor, loss, love love love..., Mayan calendar, rediscovery, revolution, touch
Supposedly the world shifts in, according to Mountain Standard Time, less than two hours. I wonder at what this next evolution will bring. I DON’T believe it to be the end of the world, by any means; I was never into those kinds of hysterical activities in the first place. But I find myself getting quieter, listening more, paying better attention these past few months. An e-mail I just received courtesy of an organization of professional women in Boulder said something very similar, and it was interesting to
get another woman’s perspective that was very similar to mine: in a world that’s been constantly me-me-me, we’re going to have an us revolution. It will be quiet. It will be chaotic, at times, but as we realize more and more how universally connected we all are, communities will strengthen and the reign of the individual, the Narcissist’s Age, one might call it, will come to a close.
If not the rest of the world America certainly needs this. Our most recent election cycle still saw about half of the country depicting Socialism as though it were a) the same thing as Communism and b) a four-letter word. In a country where it takes tremendous violence to blast us out of our own little heads and our own little worlds, where the only time we all turn away from our i-devices, our Cloud addition, our Pinterest accounts, our Fantasy Football picks is when we find out that there was a massacre at an elementary school and most of the casualties were very young children and even THAT doesn’t hold our interest for too long; we have gone cold before the corpses of the first children have and back to our little worlds, we need, we NEED to grow our communities. All of the important devices, applications, software, etc. in use by hundreds of millions of Americans these days—not most, but ALL of them—point us towards building community. Pinterest. Facebook. Online news and comment forums such as CNN, MSNBC, The Guardian, NPR, Fox News, any major news site. Specialty “news” and other boutique sites. Websites we create for ourselves. Blogging. Tweeting. Posting photos on web-based sites such as photobucket or picasa. Sharing music through programs such as grooveshark. Even sending an email…to another person…or to every person in your universe.
It is this writer’s hope that we see more kindness. More welcoming. More idealism. More smiles. How hard is it to smile at someone even if you’re texting away on your iPhone and have your ears plugged with headphones but you pass by your neighbor, the one you never talk to and really haven’t met yet, even though you live next door to each other. How hard is it to smile, to say “good morning”, to bring a little cheer into another person’s day?
I currently work in a call center, and one of the specifics that we went through in training was to smile through the phone calls. It’s an inbound call center so, lacking the brutality of cold-calling, I find it relatively easy to smile. What I found difficult the other day was keeping the tears IN my eyes as a customer explained how, at 86 years old, he was getting married. His proposal was so incredibly eloquent I’ve been kicking myself for now writing down the second half of it, but it began with “Violets are blue, roses are red, I think it’d be great, if we were to wed”. They’re marrying on
January 1, 2013. She’s the Sunday-school teacher at his church, and all of the kids in the Sunday school class were in on it when he proposed to her. He gave me the miniature version of the story while on the phone with me; afterwards I had to stop myself and take pause. A customer service call can do it too, no fancy applications needed.
I remember when we put together the first Free Hugs weekend in Boulder during the Fall Festival in front of the Boulder Café. It wasn’t too long after Juan Mann’s Free Hugs video went viral and we were a bit nervous but somehow, the chief organizer, Bobalicious, got someone to donate a few crates of bottled water. Our pitches, especially as we’d make eye contact with people, went “Free Hugs! Free Hugs! You don’t want a hug? OK, well would you like some water?” It was a really hot early fall weekend in Boulder and people were stunned that we were just handing out water. After they took the bottles from us we’d grin a bit and ask, “NOW do you want a hug?” I don’t think the return rate was 100%, but it was probably around 97% or above. It was the most phenomenal feeling, all those people, from little kids to little old ladies hugging us and hugging them back. Occasionally one or a couple of us would break away and walk up and down the Pearl Street Mall still calling out “Free Hugs! Free Hugs!”. I’ll never forget the two guys who decided to sandwich me by pranking me: one darted in front of me, then turned around when his buddy behind me called his name in mock-surprise. They smushed me between them, and soon all three of us were laughing deliciously. I’ve never felt so good in my life as I did leaving Free Hugs both days that weekend. It was a luminous feeling. I hear it’s a big thing in Boulder now…and if there’s not a Free Hugs campaign going on in Fort Collins I may just have to start one.
As we move forward in time, space and through the end of the Mayan calendar I know that we, as human beings, are capable of so much more love, so much more compassion, so much more caring, so much more support, so much MORE. Let’s start proving it.
I would love for this blog post to be read by as many people as possible. If you enjoy what you’ve read here please let me know and please feel free to share with anyone you think might enjoy it as well. Blessings and peace to you all. Om mani padme hum.
I think the weather gods saw me putting my bike by the door and thinking, no reason to put this away since I’ll just be biking to class tonight…and then they cackled and sent us…
My excitement for this season’s first real snowfall is tempered only by my sudden, crashing knowledge:
1)David still has my snow boots
2)David refuses to speak to me, ergo, I don’t have any civilized way of getting TO my snow boots
3)My snow boots would come in really handy for the walk I am going to be undertaking to go to class tonight
Yet my minor, present and very temporary concerns are a distant second to my fascination with the lovely white whirlwind I am watching, perhaps a foot or two beyond my laptop’s screen…through the window…into the outdoors…fat, fluffy-white flakes cover grass. Vehicles in the parking lot I overlook. The empty spaces in the parking lot, its grass, its trees…all is being slowly, gently cloaked in downy-looking crystalline whiteness. The roads aren’t too bad yet, so traffic seems to be going its normal pace…there will probably be sirens soon, I consider, unfortunately, as driver’s underestimate the conditions. I will have to be mindful as I plow along the sidewalk to class, of the conditions surrounding me. A single vehicle at slide soon becomes a pile-up. An unfortunate pedestrian gets caught up in it with no armor, nothing to shield her from the thousands of pounds smashing and crashing and banging –unwantedly, unwillfully, yet quite easily, as we all succumb to the laws of Nature, especially when we least expect to meet them—becomes a dead pedestrian. No sugar-coating that one.
Still I am so grateful to be watching this blizzard blow in I can think of nothing but happiness at the notion that we are really getting SNOW!!! Having spent a portion of the most recent weekend driving up the front range into one of the little finger-canyons that straddle the Poudre, where fire has destroyed almost anything and everything for acres and acres and after while this canyon I’ve known my whole life is a-jumble of ashy, blackened, deadened ache-rage…acreage too, no doubt, but heart-ache, stomach-ache, can-still-smell-burn-in-my-nostrils-whenever-I-head-up-the-canyon-ache, having seen those burned acres again, I wish for all of the precipitation we can possibly get this winter and spring too. It has been terrifyingly dry here up until now, and you can almost feel the city holding its collective breath for some sign that it WILL end.
Perhaps we can all exhale, at least for now.
~DB 12.18.2012, Fort Collins, Colorado
One writer’s exhaustion. One runner’s defeat. I’m back at it again for the September 22, 2012 Denver Rock n Roll marathon. I need to lose about 20 pounds and the bout of plantar fasciitis I feel every morning when I wake up and get out of bed…the familiar sting of that stiff broad band of tissue running from the forefoot to the Achilles tendon, the downfall of so many runners. I wonder obliquely if my state-sponsored “health insurance” covers dry-needling and try to get more hyaluronic acid, water and oils in general into my system. As I write this I have to lick roasted garlic-olive oil from my fingertips as they keep coming into contact with it when I dip the (Stacy’s Naked) pita chip in. I need to get some cayenne so I can make my own hummus. I need to learn how to stone-set. I need to endear myself to my boyfriend. I need to be a better apprentice, friend, colleague, General Manager, lover. Oh yeah…and runner.
I REALLY need to be a better runner.
Four miles tomorrow and who knows when I’ll get them done? Work, time with my sweetie, sleep…oh yeah, sleep.
I need to remember how to go to sleep and stay that way, at some sort of regular hours. Following an awesome, but lengthy, meeting with my new main writing client that commenced at 8:20pm last night I have been unable to crash since, and I wince at the notion of looking through my blinds since I am just going to see dawn approaching, and me without any real faculty to greet it (is a worn sigh a faculty?). Maybe I can just stop sleeping and get my training and blogging done during that time instead…
And I think of the exhaustion I see on my boyfriend, who works the night shift and has been dropping weight at a terrifying rate and only begins to look anywhere close to his actual age when he’s beat…which is a lot of the time. I worry about him, maybe unnecessarily. We haven’t been dating that long. But I know we’ll be friends for a very long time, and I have much to learn from this amazing blessing to whom I was introduced and now have the good fortune of calling my sweetheart.
So I probably should figure out how to work that whole sleep thing in.
For now, my singlets and shorts and trainers are calling, “it’s just four miles!” and I am trying my damnedest to ignore them…