Twelve years ago, I nearly died in childbirth. It’s not something I often bring up because telling people about your birth story is akin to telling them about your dreams. Maybe it’s an interesting story for you, the person who experienced it, but it's hell to have to listen to for everyone else.
I’d be willing to wager that people-watching is the most worthwhile pastime. Ever.
Once upon a time, when my husband and I owned a small business, our shop’s windows faced a busy main street. It was the perfect place for some good old fashion people watching. There were many a slow afternoon when I’d find myself sitting at the window seat of our restaurant, staring out into the world while eating a pressed sandwich and contemplating the universe.
I am constantly amazed these days when I hear people complaining about Pink Shirt Day. They say things like, “Kids need to learn to stick up for themselves and stop being such little pussies.”
“If you kids don’t settle down, I’m going to turn this car around.” This was a sentiment we never heard from my dad as children. Dad believed that as soon as our family entered the car, it was now his sole mission to get to our destination in as little time as possible.
Although I take great joy in loudly writing strange and amazing tales of love, marriage and the misadventures of everyday life, I would brand myself as an introvert. I’ve mentioned before that I’m better on the page, and if you ever meet me in real life, this fact will become evidently clear. Which is actually sort of sad because I’m not even really that good on the page.
I run my hands through unwashed hair and try to press down the anxiety eating away at my heart. Tears well in the crook of my eyelids. At any moment, they will fall over the brim and into existence.