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Writing. Always writing. In my head.
And sometimes at my desk.
One of the things I’ve realized in my years of writing is this:
I’m always writing.
Staring out the window, sipping my coffee, I’m writing.
Driving along, trying not to get lost, (something I could teach, by the way), I’m writing.
Humping my way to the beach, using my weights, doing my sit ups (grr), I’m writing.
In the drugstore, checking out behind someone who’s purchasing one of those exorbitantly expensive, locked-behind-plexiglass creams that promise to firm your butt or erase your wrinkles (which I actually have on my butt), I’m writing.
In the parking lot, waiting to go in for my second mammogram and first sonogram (because the first mammo was “a little funky,” my words, not Not Dr. Kim’s), I’m writing.
And then, laying on my back, having the aforementioned sonogram on my little bittys, I’m writing.
Writing. Always writing.
In my head.
Most of it is God awful but sometimes, sometimes, it’s salvageable. And sometimes it’s funny and I burst out laughing. Then people look at me — in the drugstore, on the sonogram table — like Maybe she missed her medication.
And that makes me wonder: Did I?
And then I’m writing about that.
Putting on makeup. Using the diffuser on the hot mess I call hair. Choosing between the heels I love but hurt everything (and muttering Almost 60 sucks), and the flats that don’t. I’m writing. About a woman who thinks makeup will hide the six-lane freeway running across her forehead, that her enormous, frizzy locks aren’t just this side of frightening, and if she takes a few Tylenol she can wear the heels her heart desires.
Writing. Always writing. In my head. And sometimes at my desk.
