Its almost midnight, the wind is blowing and I'm standing outside my apartment complex on a busy street, waiting for the dog to do his business. This wouldn't be great normally, but the whoosh of cars behind me and the string of sorority sisters leaving the frat across the street has me doubting my clothing choices: a blue, stars and moon-covered robe thrown over a t-shirt and sweat pants, and my husband's shoes, because I couldn't find my own kick-ons and these were by the door. "Well, that's attractive," I imagine they say to each other. Probably in a voice like my step-mother's.
I look like some sort of vagrant wizard, praying to the god of canine regularity to end my public shaming.
I'm 28 years old, overweight and under-stimulated. I can feel 30 creeping up behind me, and while I'm thankful for what I do have-- the dog, my husband, and not living with my parents-- what I'm thinking right now is "Is this really it?" When I was in my early twenties I used to joke that the 18 year-old me thought I'd be training elephants or doing something similarly fantastic by now. The 28 year old me just wants to finish a few short horror stories.
I don't think this blog will change my life, but I hope it will help me stay accountable. Every day I will list whether or not I pulled off some writing, and maybe a post. So, blog, here's to you: the new record of my progress (I hope).
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