These Are The Days For Tragic Optimism.
<p>I’m sitting on my bed, still groggy, under-rested, over-caffeinated; legs outstretched on crumpled white sheets and a grey blanket sprinkled with dog hair and gluten free pretzel crumbs. I want to be one of those people who never eats in bed, irons their sheets (has them ironed by someone else!) but I’m not, never will be. Whatever.</p>
<p>My back is propped against two soft, malleable pillows, one slips down, lopsided, in the space between wall and bed. <em>Will we ever get a headboard, like real adults? </em>We’ve been together 30 years, married for 27, weathered self-made storms and unforeseen events, paid bills (or not), raised children and canines. We’re real adults, whatever that means.</p>
<p>These days, I feel like the pillow, stuck in the in-between, askew, not exactly where I’m supposed to be, but near. A little lumpy, not meeting expectations. I’m not sure what those expectations are. More money? More work? Fewer wrinkles? Less cellulite?</p>
<p>It’s exhausting, the effort to dissolve expectations, to move beyond romanticizing the past, comparing the present, projecting the future. To be right here, right now. Because I mean, who the hell wants to be right here, right now?</p>
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