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.