Blessed are my writing partners/critique buddies, who’ve given me a one-hour massage gift certificate during this time of great stress. These women are talented and generous and they ROCK.
Blessed is my daughter, who navigates the daily dramas of middle school with maturity and grace. She turns 13 in two months. I suspect that’s when I’ll need that massage.
Blessed are all the men like my husband, who have the secret recipe to mix head and pillow and come out 30 seconds later with snoring. Whereas I toss and turn for hours, with the newly added joy of alternating between chills and sweats – pulling the covers to my neck and then tossing them off completely. Perimenopause does NOT rock.
Blessed is my brother in Texas, who has provided me with a new diversion in the form of Doctor Who. I’m up to Season Two (the revamped show, not the original), and am having a ball. I didn’t think Christopher Eccleston could be replaced, but David Tennant pretty much rocks, too.
And blessed are my fictional characters, quietly waiting their turn for my attention. I hope to shake myself out of this cloud soon and have a ball with them, too.