Get your glad rags on.

A refreshing discovery, that throwing parties four years ago it was typical to include 'byob' in the event details, amongst other 'polite rules.'

Now, due part to our age, the only thing that's typical is the response, 'What can I bring?' and we no longer have to worry that twenty strangers will show up uninvited.

Cheers to always having something to look forward to, otherwise, none of this is worth it.

Ankles splayed and all tied.

Not sure if going jogging is the most appropriate outlet anymore.
It's better than nothing, but what I really want to do is a floor exercise routine.
Tumbling pass after tumbling pass. The slow, then the fast.
The feeling that washes over you when you land something perfectly.

Fitter. Happier. More productive.

The biggest misconception I think my friends have about (me) getting married: I don't struggle with depression anymore. I've been getting leaned on an awful lot due to some unfortunate horseshit, which I'm fine with and very humbled by, but part of me thinks it's assumed that I have nothing to be sad about. That the things that made me sad two years ago are any easier to deal with now. They're not.

What I really want to respond.

Thank you for your e-mail ma'am. I do appreciate your correspondence. Am I correct to assume you are e-mailing me on behalf of your husband because his domain name is tunamcdermot and that in fact has nothing to do with his given name?
I'm happy to get this situation straightened out right away.

I could be your carpenter.

Is this bitch for real?

<<... Also, I don't think you single childless people know what you want anyway. You're always changing your mind about when it's ok for people to talk about this stuff. I think you all should probably at least meet up and get your story straight, but you'd probably just get drunk and end up having ill-advised, unprotected sex and want to TELL EVERYONE ABOUT IT.>>

There are one million way-too-personal feelings I have about this article in addition to several cheap shots I want to take at her.
Maybe she's being sarcastic and I should give her the benefit of the doubt but the article is way too long which leads me to believe she thinks she's a good writer and takes it way too seriously.

Maybe she should have read this first.

Saying nothing, that's enough for me

One day I will write a song about Christmas morning with our child. How we couldn't contain our excitement hours before-- eating halves of cookies and gnawing the sides of carrot sticks, pretend proof that something else exists.

All under the boughs unbowed

All these feelings, now nine years old, are resurfacing and overwhelming and I wish it was appropriate to cry all the time but I'm also kind of glad it's not.
It's frustrating because I don't even know why I'm getting sad or nervous- it's not like they can tell me anything I don't already know.
Tomorrow will be a reminder of reality, as if it's not already something I think about every day.
I would really just like a fast-forward button, or a big, fat joint.