My body is betraying me. Saturday night sleeps are always an unreliable lot- they're either disrupted by too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc drying out my bloodstream or other festivities extending way past my normal knock out time leaving me fitful and restless once I hit the pillow. But not this time. There's something that's unsettling me and as much as I crave an escape of a couple of hours of unconsciousness, my body clearly sees fit to remind me.
It's not the ring. It's not him. He's fantastic- my curly haired, rap-loving, cradle of support. He pushes me to be the best version of myself and let's be honest, I've always been a book in desperate need of a thorough edit. Maybe gold stars are to blame. Maybe the trophies that accompanied every minor accomplishment in childhood built up this lofty gnawing need for recognition. I still want my purple "Good Effort" ribbon.
Maybe this is a humbling spoon of reality. Maybe it's good not to have everything I want, to allow an area of my life leaving me wanting. Maybe I need to not want. Maybe I should become a Buddhist.
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