A friend commented today that I seemed happier and calmer. I agreed. I am doing better. Much better. Almost got my groove back. And about frakkin’ time, I can tell you. Although if I could flip back that switch in my head which I flipped during the darkest days which has allowed me to daily eat everything not actually nailed to the cupboard shelves — well, that would be great. Also, the NYTimes told me today that I should be able (as an almost 40 year old woman) to do 16 push-ups. Hang on a second while I try that out.

2 and a third.

Sad. Sad. Sad.

But I am doing better, even if the better is not very deep yet (scratch my psyche with even a small tiny pin and watch me bleed) and I am grateful for every ounce of okay I feel. And I know the okay is getting better because I’m writing again. I’m charging through this play about — oh but I can’t tell you until it’s done because (I’m not sure why) if I tell you, it kills it dead and I don’t need to write it anymore. Tell you what, when I finish it, I’ll ask for readers. I’ll even set me a deadline. Say this time next week, I’ll post and ask three of you to read it and rip it to tiny tiny shreds for me. It’s tentatively called Long/Short. But that’s very tentative.

And I might go to the gym. If I had a membership. Or any inclination to go to the gym. That might be rushing things.