run this amazing day

I have a really good memory. It's a curse, not a blessing (also a curse: the number of sentence fragments and selfies in this post so if either of those things chaps you right in the craw, click away now). It makes arguing with me a gigantic pain in the ass, because I will unfortunately remember, word for word, who said what and the precise inflection in your voice when you said it. It means that I almost never misplace anything, and in the rare moments that I do, it drives me freakin' bonkers with frustration because where I left my old man carpet slippers gets locked away in brain prison behind three complete albums of Stevie Wonder lyrics, my childhood phone number, how many pairs of running shorts I own and how much I paid on the underground market for each. I don't need a calendar to remind me of doctor's appointments and dog haircuts. From inside the house I can closely estimate how many miles are on my car and how much gas is in the tank. I can recite ever detail...

My greatest fear in life has always been that my husband would die. I had nightmares about it for years, terrifying dreams that broke me awake, shaking and silently crying, reaching over to touch him in the dark. Soon after we met, he told me that he was certain he would die in a car accident, and it haunted me. On long car trips I sat on edge, jumpy, continually bracing for impact. Quite illogically, I have always believed that fear will protect me. Too often, though, it dominates me and I succumb to the dangerous edges of what it brings forth. It means I run when things get hard. I hide when I'm in pain, careful and silent and still. Early in life, I was taught that a defensive position is considered weakness. I learned that it is always the right decision to attack first, that the only way to survive when things fall apart is by crouching behind barriers hoisted sky-high, covertly reloading. It's where and when I learned to be dry, sarcastic, flip and ironic and self-deprec...

I'm a storyteller. I may not do it well, or properly, or how anyone else does it, but it's what I do. Ten years ago, I wrote a letter to myself on my birthday, the first one.  The birthday posts have always been my favorite to work through (likely because the navel-gazing-dial gets set to max). They are far too wordy, grammatical nightmares - just like my academic papers ding-dong! - filled with bonus adverbs and commas galore, random trains of thought that stagger off the tracks to wander aimlessly, endlessly, in circles. I know. I can give a masterclass in all the things wrong with me, and my writing, and what I do with this space. But for ten years (minus one) it's how and where I take stock of my life, privately, except for the part where I hit publish so it can outlive me to be mocked for generations to come. Telling stories has  always been less about the story itself and more about the telling, what it teaches me about myself, the mirror that it holds up to my he...

Since I relocated to Indiana last fall for school, my husband and I have fallen into habits about how we keep in touch, all of which revolve around the puppies. I FaceTime him when the boys eat, he FaceTimes me two hours later when the girls are patiently waiting for one of us to say, go ahead .   I get up early, here in the eastern time zone, and usually there are a few texts from him from the night before when I do, pictures of the girls curled up asleep, or funny things that they had done. I feed the boys, head out to swim or run, and I'm usually making my own breakfast when a text pops up on my phone, good morning . Wednesday. I was about halfway through my 6am swim when I realized that there hadn't been any texts from him that morning, and I got a bad feeling. I'm an anxious worrywart by nature, but I couldn't shake it.  I kept swimming, more and more frantic, until finally I pulled myself up on the deck to dig my phone out of my bag and text him, just checki...