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