Tired.

Tired of running.

Tired of being pulled in a trazillion different directions. Who hasn’t been there?

Each day my alarm screams at me to get out of bed at 2:30 in the morning, and each day I’m convinced I’ve aged 6 months since putting my head on the pillow. I know you can relate. What happened to the days of 8th grade when I had ‘real’ problems, like that poetry scrapbook I put together in a bathroom stall at school and if spaghetti was being served for lunch? Or whether or not I should wear blue eyeshadow AND the lace Madonna glove, or just the glove, solo.

You know, pressing issues. About things that mattered.

Back then, I daydreamed about being an adult, people whose only worries were to remember to check their answering machine or so I thought. Now I’m 38, and checking voicemail barely makes the To Do list. I didn’t realize as a junior high student with my Izod collar flipped up that one day I would be blessed with migraines, bills, gray hair and more things to do in the day than there are minutes on the clock.

It only proves that life isn’t always what it may seem. Girls with straight hair want curly, debonair homes are sometimes vacant of furniture inside, and that skinny girl at the mall may secretly wish she was curvy.

I love my life.

Just need a breather. Nothing some disco-blue eye shadow and a lace glove can’t fix.

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