Today is a good day

Today, unlike many of late, has been a good day. Which has been rather nice. 

Of course now I am concerned that I have jinxed myself somehow and within the not too distant future all will turn to shit. I will however pay no attention to that stream of thought in the hope that it will disappear.

This post is a culmination of three attempts to write something. It might take a while but in the end I always manage to get there. To the end that is.

It's nearly quarter past two in the morning. Sleep, is sadly the last thing on my mind. It should be mind you. I don't get nearly enough of it. Yet here I am. Drinking a beer, listening to my 'Favourites' playlist, pretending to write while actually scrolling through Facebook. Which given the time is the most ridiculous aspect of my actions. It doesn't matter how many time I click the recent posts button, there will be nothing new to see. The rest of my world is snuggled up tightly in bed and fast asleep. Lucky them.

I know I should be as well, but for some reason I just can't drag myself there.

I started this four days ago.

Ok scratch that. 

I now started it six days ago. Two days ago I opened it up again and wrote the line about four days ago.

It is now nearly nine thirty in the morning. The children are trying to play hide and seek in a house that as far as I can see has no where to hide. Despite it being summer big black clouds fill the sky and a rather cool (and strong) breeze is blowing.

It is now a week since I started four days ago which makes it eleven days since I originally thought blogging at nearly quarter past two in the morning was a good idea. Only I have just gone back over are reread what I wrote. Man I can go on about mundane pointless crap. Let's just say it is quite possibly nearly two weeks since I tried to write something

As always in my life there are mountains of washing patiently waiting to be washed or folded, or probably even both. They are one of life's constants.

All the sighing.

While I may not have actually managed very well in the every day writing things are improving. Today has seen a landslide of words all over the place. Which is nice. Hopefully in the next three hours as I madly try and get everything done before I head out the door for work I won't regret any of the ways I have chosen to spend today.

Today has (so far at least) been a good day. I began a hundred day push up challenge. Which I happened to share 'live on Facebook'. The first time I have done so I might add. It's here by the way if you want to check it out

I do hope that you will join me. I am starting to think about how great it would be to get 100 people to join in with me. So far I'm at nine. Maybe I can give myself 100 days to find the 100 people and I will keep doing 100 push ups till the last person has completed their 100 days? 

Just words

Whenever I am fortunate enough to make the time to sit and write my mind is naturally blank. Every single time. Even when I come here with an actual purpose or idea, by the time the browser is opened and I'm ready to go, the words have gone. Then all I can think of writing is, as I sit here staring at the blank screen... Which would be fine if I hadn't already used that as an opening line on the book that will probably never be published on account of the fact I will probably never get around to actually finishing it.

All the sighs.

Anyways, I have a slight problem, and I don't just mean about the lack of words I can think of to write. I have this other problem as well. Ok I have lots of other problems but there is one in particular that is causing me great angst at the moment. And is quite possibly the reason why I have this innate inability to write right now.

A very large part of me knows that if I were to share my burden then I would more than likely be able to find some resolve, but the thing is I am scared to say it out loud. I am scared to release it from my inner being because that would make it real and I am not sure I want to make it real. I am not sure that I can cope with the reality of my feelings.

So much sighing and deep breathing.

The other day I wrote a post here, full of nothing really. A release of my tension and anger at the time. It felt good. Writing has always been my release valve. My sense maker.

Deathday.

It's ten past one in the morning. Not that I suspect you care or it really matters but I didn't really know how else to get started and start I must else how else will I finish and until I have said what needs to be said there will be no bed for my little head.

I finished work an hour ago, stopping off at the golden arches on the way home to fill the never ending gaping hole that is a teenager's stomach. Unless of course it is actually a meal time, then there is no gaping hole but more of a detest of any and all food that is placed in front of them. But I am digressing. Not surprisingly the trials and tribulations of a teenager's eating habits is not what is keeping me from sleeping right now.

Today is the seventh anniversary of my dear old Dad's deathday. Which by the way I think should become a common place term. Deathday. Not quite the same as a birthday but in many ways just as important to remember. I don't want to be all sad and morbid about it because it should be a day that remembers all the joy and good times of a person but it is hard not let the tears gently roll down my cheeks.

Oh how I miss him still.

So so so much. More than what words can ever explain.

All the sighing.

I have been reading through all the posts over at APL that I have tagged with Dad. My nose is now choc-a-block with snot. Why does crying do that to your nose? One of the many mysteries of the world I suppose.

For now though my brain has turned to mush. Words are escaping me and an intense numbness has consumed my body. Oh please don't let sleep elude me.

The long road to China

A long time ago, in what actually feels like another life time ago there was a man. A man who at one point I did believe that I love very much. My entire world was turned upside down from the very moment I first met him. Even to this day thoughts of him rush through my mind at a disturbingly frequent level.

On the odd occasion over the years I have written about him. I generally feel rather guilty about it though because of my love for Mr Awesome.

I always feel guilty acknowledging my love of other men, even though it was before Mr Awesome and I, were what we are. I think that stems from the fact that I even to this day I can clearly remember the first time I met Mr A. I was only a girl of twelve years but there was a stirring in my chest like nothing I had ever felt before. I knew then and there that I loved him and wanted to marry him.

The day that I realised it would not happen the way I had envisaged was both heart breaking and gut wrenching. I remember having a shower and just moaning in tears and pain as the hot water washed over my skin. It was the most sad and dramatic time of my fifteen years of life. But at least it gave me permission to set off and explore the options with other boys and then men.

But I am digressing.

Back to the man. The Mechanic, I think I will call him. Though really when I met him he was The Mobile Phone Man. But again I am digressing, which normally would not bother me but I have already been sitting here for far longer than I intended to. Which wouldn't matter if it weren't for the facts I my stomach growling is almost beyond ignoring, as is my need to wee, and the stupid beeping washing machine reminding me I really need to get the sheets out before it rains...

Where was I?

Oh that's right, my point about this man that I once loved to proclaimed to know me inside out and who I do believe loved me in a way unlike no one ever has.

He told me that while he couldn't understand why there was no denying that if there was a long and hard way to do something I would undoubtedly do it that way. The long road to China.

As I get older (and hopefully wiser) I can't help but think there may actually have been some, or perhaps even a lot, of truth behind his words. Today was a prime example of that.

Not surprisingly I have to hang out washing today. I always have to hang out washing. In fact even at this very moment as I type these words the washing machine is beeping at me, yelling it's reminder that I have washing to hang.

Because the washing basket is sitting on the couch full of socks and knickers waiting to be distributed to appropriate rooms and drawers I thought that I would take a few items out to the line at a time. Traipsing through the the entire house from the laundry to the clothes line on numerous occasions also had the added benefit of increasing my step count to help ensure I remain on the top of my Fitbit step count challenge.

All seems like not a bad idea at first doesn't it?

Only I also thought it would be a great idea to put the washing line up extra high so I could stretch as I put it up.

After about the tenth trip back from the machine that appeared to have a never ending fill of clothes and then standing on my tippie toes to hang it out I couldn't help but wonder why would I make all of this so hard on myself. No wonder I never want to do the washing if I am just going to make it harder than it needs to be.

So now my thoughts are filled with why? Why do I seem to make things harder than that need to? And how can I change this?