This morning I was whining about how I just didn’t feel like running — and then I got this back:
Pretty decent for a menopausal woman, I think.
I do this, I do that, I live without a sense of what “live” or “life” is about. These are things I should have gotten out of my system at 2 in the morning in the middle of winter at Frost Amphitheater, sharing a beer and a sleeping bag with a guy named Dave who wanted to see if he could feel what it was like to hang off the end of the Milky Way. It was OK then, the not knowing the answer; I want to feel that way again. It is not that life is not worth living — it is that I think life might be over-rated.
In the meantime, I take my meds, I do my bit to keep my body in reasonable shape, and I keep wondering, “Why bother?” What if it really is just so that I can keep eating dessert?