What a relief not to worry about Friday night.
I'm sitting at my desk. My dogs are snoring.
I made a rotten dinner -- my first failed cooking experiment of married life; the first in many years. Shrimp souffle. An idea that seemed great until it turned ugly.
At home. My desk. My dogs. Rain. The day no longer incredibly hot, a soft breeze wafting in. No stickiness, no sweat. I feel okay. I feel good. I'm cozy. I'm loved. This is my place in the world.
I'm at my desk, typing on a Friday night.
So what if I ruined dinner?
I'm a pretty good egg, a pretty good cook.
I'm nice. I'm smart. Far from the nicest or smartest person on the planet, but that's okay. When I tried to be that nice and smart, it hurt.
I quit.
I can type fast, and my dogs love me, and I'm a good cook.
I'm a little insecure, but you might be, too.
I can type with my eyes closed, which feels like a superpower. It's one of the greatest gifts I've given myself. I didn't know it would be, sitting there in high school, diligently pecking at an actual typewriter, clueless to what life had in store.
Some of my classmates made our typing teacher cry. Despite all the malice I've seen, their cruelty still astounds me.
We all start being our exact selves at some moment.
