I still have a shelf yet to tie the first bookcase together. Tomorrow.
I've hit two #BLM demonstrations/rallies in the last two days. There's a die-in for transgender awareness early this evening. I might make that one too. Every day, I try to find new ways to wear myself out. Yesterday morning before the rally I rode 36 miles in 2 1/2 hours, a great deal of which is at a significant grade. I sat down with a calendar last night and pencilled in a schedule for hiking, cycling, lifting weights, and yoga. Today was yoga. Instead I smoked two cigarettes, wrote a letter, made a shopping list, and then sat to gather the impetus that I need to move me out to the car.
She wants to be friends. I am trying. It's is so much easier to live single. A relief. I have a hard enough time balancing myself; adding her mess to my mix was overflowing the capacity of my bowl. And I'm not backing down. I don't want back in, even when she love-bombs and teases. Go ahead girl. Make a fuss. Go love you. I'm gonna love me. We can go for a walk once a week. I don't need more. Even that seems barely manageable, but right now I don't have to worry because we aren't together and I am breathing. Breath. It's an incredible act. I am in the world, and the world is in me.
It's a pandemic. I'm battling for a few safe feet. But I would gather my friends and activities back together and live my life as it looked before my husband came along. That's where the healing should have started. I'm always playing catchup.