Sometimes I just want more.
more glamor (any glamor really)
more fame (again, I’d have to start with some fame)
I roll around in bed wondering how I got to where I am, and wishing I was something different, something better, basically, something more.
But then again I also wish I was less.
less open with others about the intimate details of my life
less obsessed with baked goods
I reposition myself for the hundredth time, check the clock, let out exasperated sighs. I play a game of scrabble on my phone. Make faces at my stuffed bear in the dark. I give up and get out of bed, waiting for sleep. Waiting for my mind to stop. But it never, and I mean never, stops.
But it does, after an hour or so of the Food Network, slow down and I return to bed. I crawl into a warm, safe, comfortable space, and my adoring husband, who has been sound asleep for hours now, mindlessly grabs my hand…welcoming me back to bed. Back to reality. I feel loved and safe, cherished and blessed, and he isn’t even awake.
Then I realize just how silly and stupid I can be.
How could I possibly ask for anything more?