you'll have a song stuck in your head after this

I’ve been struggling.

Some days it’s like a thumb-wrestle. Carbs, no carbs?

Other days it’s like sumo-wrestling. I will prevail and ethics will win.

Struggling. Wrestling.

It’s a brutal fact of life and there’s this notion that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, it should, if you’re a life-ninja and can thwart off the jaded cynicism that what’s-trying-to-kill-you wants to impart on you.

In the words of Dora, just keep wrestling, just keep wrestling.

It will pay off, because while you’re (I’m) running the gauntlet of crap, we’re getting faster, more muscle-toney, and yeah, a bit breathless. What doesn’t kill you might make you stronger, but you’ll be a worn out son of a bitch after you survive.

That’s where I’m at right now. I’m tired, out of breath, sore, want to sleep every day at precisely 4 p.m. I’m disappointed in the (little bit of) weight I’ve gained, the (little bit of) sleep I’m getting, and the decisions made about me, for me, that I don’t particularly like, but will control my reaction to.

But. (there’s always a but).

Across a bridge and under a wrought-iron sign there’s a little gravel driveway, and the little gravel driveway leads to a little Cottage surfaced with multi-colored stones and tomato plants lined up neatly in buckets near the front door. There’s a bike leaning against one of its sides and colorful scarves keep peering eyes from looking in the double plate-glass window.

Inside the little Cottage there are two big dogs and every morning and every night they’re walked by their woman, and sometimes down to the little lazy river. There’s music playing and farm fresh veggies on the counter, the grill might be fired up, or apple crisp baking in the Crock pot. There’s a handmade dining room table and homegrown green beans. There are books to be read and shelves of ones already devoured. There’s always writing and talking and silence and musing. There’s yelling at dogs and cuddling. There’s herbal tea with honey chilled in an antique pitcher in the fridge.

So, to all of the What Doesn’t Kill You bullshit…yeah, I might be tired and you’re making me feel old, and you might be temporarily kicking my ass, but you’re messing with the wrong chick. See, you’re not making me stronger, because I am already strong and I have an arsenal of life-ninja skills to toss right back atcha. And I’m gonna.

After my nap.