Saturday is usually the best day of the week for me. It is the day since I quit my 2^nd job, where I can a-Sleep until I want without an alarm and b-do what I want. Usually, doing what I want means waking up and drinking coffee and reading a book. When I’m reading, I’m contemplating what the rest of the day will hold; when will I do laundry, what will I eat, what the rest of the family is doing. All worries that I don’t stress out about. Then I have an internal battle with myself and ask the question, “What if I do nothing?” Will it really matter?   

The difference with today is that I knew that I needed to walk. With the daughter working both jobs today, she wasn’t going to be my walking partner. My bestie offered her company on the walk, so I took her up on it. After a few errands and the start of cleaning up my office, we set off after 2. She brought both her dogs on the walk, and I kept giving her a hard time about them “F’en up my walking pace.”  True to my prediction, we did the 2 miles, slightly over, at 41:35 total time. I don’t really care about the time it takes to do these walks, but I like giving her a hard time.

I did manage to still take my supplements on a Saturday, did eat a normal lunch at a normal time, so at least this is still consistent with what has happened the previous days.

My son asks how I’m feeling lately, because I told him about the blog and why I’m doing it. He says he is giving me ideas to write about when I post, but I welcome him asking just the same. It’s weird but it isn’t weird that he’s asking. He’s very empathetic with me and always has been. I will write what I told him, “No, I’m not sore.” “Yes, it’s good to get outside.” “Yes, it was a good walk.” “I’m feeling happy.” All those things are true, and I do feel them. I feel positive that I have been consistent so far, for 3 days. (HIGH FIVE TO ME).

When writing this, I’m a little melancholy. I’m pretty sure I know why too. Self-identifying is not an easy thing to do. With my mom passing in June, my sister decided to write a book about Mom’s life. Since the start, she has been asking me to send her stories, along with my other siblings and family/friends. I’ve been unintentionally putting it off but must get them to her to make the book publishing deadline. No biggie. But it is a biggie.

Many of the stories are good stories, thoughtful stories about mom. Some are funny and some are powerful, some are just her and I.  The reason I’m melancholy is because there aren’t that many. Shouldn’t there be hundreds that I have to narrow it down? I have SOOOOO many memories of Mom, but actual stories? Not so much. Does that mean that we didn’t have a good relationship? Why am I even thinking that the two correlate? I know we had a good relationship, I don’t think so, no, no we did. I know we did. I feel we did. I don’t want to forget the memories, ever. Guess I’m just the way I am today because she isn’t here and she can’t read these awesome blog posts?