I did it again.

I became man-obsessed.

I assure you, it was temporary and I now see the error of my ways.

I went on a date and got all giddy with excitement and possibility.

And Kaput. Plop. Splat.

Back to before.

I have to remind myself:

I have a pretty awesome life.

I struggle, complain sometimes, and fight with myself,

but I have a pretty awesome life.

I worry that I won’t have children.

I worry that I will regret not having had children.

But I get to have crispy kale and pumpkin soup for dinner.

I never have to buy fish sticks or chicken fingers or chocolate milk.

I get to read Henry James and Kazuo Ishiguro before I go to bed

instead of Dr. Seuss or Peter Rabbit or the book about the little teapot

(though all great books I will gladly read to my nieces and nephews).

Oh, and I can watch R-rated movies in the afternoon

and not explain WHY it’s nap time twenty million times a day.

I don’t have to know the names of all the planets

or explain why the stars are so far away.

Yes, I have a pretty awesome life.

By no means perfect, by no means finished,

I can be happy right now with my pretty awesome life.

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