112

I love my husband.
I do.
But lately, he hasn’t made life very easy.
Because lately, I’ve been wallowing. The details don’t matter, I simply haven’t been my best this summer. But I do want to be very clear that my Hunky has put up with my funk, my pout and my apathy with gentleness and understanding. More than I deserve, truly.
He’s just not letting me stay here.

Given my way, I’d probably spend twelve to fifteen hours a day in my bed with fluffy fiction and fancy chocolate. Steaming sweet coffee and the occasional glass of deep red wine would be delivered by the magical people who work for free to keep my house clean and my laundry folded. What? If I’m going to have a funk, I’m not doing it in filth.

Hunky allowed me to entertain the possibility of this for awhile. In fact, most of the summer I lived life on my terms which translates into hiding like a hermit, wearing mostly pajama pants, but I did have to do my own laundry and sweep the floors.

He let me be quiet.
He let me be sad.
He let me send colorful text messages throughout the worst of the days.

Then two days ago he wrote a blog with a number.

And that was that. Without a word to me, without even a hint that it had anything to do with me, because it didn’t, I knew that it was time to stop the ridiculous pout and carry on with things.
But not just carry on with them, to change them, to direct them, to improve them. To stop letting life just happen and actually engage it again.
With all the possibility of failure, and disappointment and difficulty
Because without engaging you also miss the victories, and the relationships and the beauty.

Cocoons made of bed covers are nice, but they won’t actually produce any butterflies.

I don’t know that I’ve wasted that last three months entirely, but I didn’t explore them either. They rolled over me whether or not I wanted them while I watched suspiciously from my island.

I’m not ready to take on the world, but I am ready to take on today. Just today.

Today is enough.

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