Too Happy
The greatest compliment someone gave me recently was saying, "You seem to notice a lot that others miss." I'd like to think that is true. I'm an observer, and I like details. A couple of days later, a different friend insisted I go to graduate school, and when I told him that I wasn't interested, and I didn't see the point, he said, "Well, you still write though, right?" No, I don't still write. I don't need to sort it out on paper as much now. I don't feel as much need to let others rake through my thoughts in an online forum, and truthfully, I find amateur writing sort of selfish in a "who cares" way now. I appreciate reading what other people write, but I don't have a need to contribute to the conversation as often. With age, I don't feel quite as strongly about anything. This post from Humans of New York captures so much about life and aging for me.
I've gained weight since our wedding, and I'm more forgiving with myself on good days, too. I had a few meltdowns recently, I'll admit, but then I collected myself and thought, I should be kinder to myself. My chubby thighs don't deserve such wrath, they've kept me upright for 32 years. I'm back in the gym, and Kelly and I are trying to eat better. I'm trying slowly trying to let a little of the vanity go.
Lately, I find that sometimes life is so rich it feels like death, like I don't or shouldn't exist. You're walking along, and everything is so perfect, you wonder how it could all even be real. I told him, "I'm too happy to write anymore," and he laughed and mused, "Kinda like the blues?"
I've gained weight since our wedding, and I'm more forgiving with myself on good days, too. I had a few meltdowns recently, I'll admit, but then I collected myself and thought, I should be kinder to myself. My chubby thighs don't deserve such wrath, they've kept me upright for 32 years. I'm back in the gym, and Kelly and I are trying to eat better. I'm trying slowly trying to let a little of the vanity go.
Lately, I find that sometimes life is so rich it feels like death, like I don't or shouldn't exist. You're walking along, and everything is so perfect, you wonder how it could all even be real. I told him, "I'm too happy to write anymore," and he laughed and mused, "Kinda like the blues?"