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What do I do . . . What do I do . . .

Who Doesn't?

Who Doesn’t?

I took this question/prompt a little different than the other blogs I clicked through. I’m totally loving finding the reading material bt-dubs. Yeah.  I just said BT-dubs.  I’m cool with it.

I try.   Every day I hope that work will be better than the day before.  That there will be something fun, something good. I hope that I will be able to create, to make someones day a little better, that I won’t have to recalibrate my expectations any lower than they already are.

“Soldiers – I’ve had enough with this being late shit.  You all made a Captain wait. Un.Acceptable.”  Eyes are rolled.  My cheeks flush red.  I am powerless. No.  I am not.  “ON YOUR FEET!”  Chairs rocket backwards.  “Push up position. MOVE” I count, they push. My cheeks are still red.

I laugh with Husband when he teases me about something silly – and give him a hard time when he insists he likes the dinner I made, yet doesn’t eat it all.  I know him.  I tease him for being a kid in a toy store when we go to Costco. He is a keeper.  My keeper. I love.  I Love him deeply.

Well, at least he got the fan

Well, at least he got the fan

I run. Sweat seeping out of my pores, burning my eyes, staining my clothes. My lungs burn, stomach cramps, toes blister.  I hate it and love it at the same time. It is so empowering.  To know I am wearing the tread down on these sneakers of mine.

I’m not a lot different than most: I have skills, trials, tribulations, hopes, friends and dreams.  I am blessed, I work hard. I have faith and I have family. I am happy.

I am.