At the end of the second 5-Minute Bluey story, inspiration for this post hit. I contemplated running for my laptop and spilling the answers of life’s meaning all over the page for you. But I didn’t. Instead, I continued on reading the right-hand pages as Dave read the left.
And now that I’m writing, I’ve forgotten. I’m blinking dumbly at the screen, with a feeling similar to not having put the car into park and watching it roll down the hill.
My False Aralia is dropping its leaves. “It’s sensitive,” a website says. If drying out its soil or changing its place in the house doesn’t work, I’ll need to repot it with fresh soil. I love that bad boy.
In thirty minutes, I’ve committed to trudging my aching feet up the carpeted stairs to watch the season finale of “Peripheral.” It reminds me of “Sons of Anarchy” and “Breaking Bad” with a sci-fi twist.
I’m speed-writing now, but I am distracted by Fantasy Football. I’m down five points with less than ten minutes to go. Winning means I’m in the money, and losing, well, losing, is sad.
I’m too tense to write. Even with a dreamy scented candle burning, my feet snuggled under a blanket, and the sound of the aquarium bubbling, the whole season of stress and triumph has come down to this. (Funny, I purposely tried not to pay attention to the game tonight for this reason. But then, out of the corner of my eye, a notification from Fantasy came in).
I know everyone who reads my blog is a good person. So my saying to be extra kind when returning packages to UPS or the like is wasting my breath.
I tried to distract myself, but the Chargers had the ball back with six minutes left. I need one carry, That’s all.
Note to self: Please, please, please don’t do this to yourself again next year. The swings are too much. Thank you.
It’s the two-minute warning, not only To show time and to the end of the game. AHHH!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 