Pit in the Stomach...

...be damned.
This is a new year.
As my brother said to me today, "in 56 years, you'll in a box in the ground. Enjoy it now."
He also assured me that I will be able to have babies for 15 years. There is no rush.
So, as Jordin Sparks says, "Just take one step at a time. There's no need to rush. It's like learning to fly or falling in love. It's going to happen when it's supposed to happen. You find the reasons why one step at a time."
Also, as Natasha Bedingfield says, "No one else can speak the words on your lips. The rest is unwritten."
My future looks so stinking bright; I need shades.

ps. The Time Traveler's Wife excerpt:
It's ironic, really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of Clare's long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under Clare's breast, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked. I love meandering through stacks at the library after the patrons have gone home, lightly touching the spines of books. These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced from them by Time's whim.
And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced. Clare with her arms plunging into the papermaking vat, pulling up the mold and shaking it so, and so, to meld the fibers. Clare reading, with her hair hanging over the back of the chair, massaging balm into her cracker red hands before bed. Clare's low voice in my ear often.
I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she cannot follow.

Sarah :: Plucky in Love

Sarah, aka "Plucky", blogs on the reg, unless she's on vacation or there's a Pretty Little Liars marathon or she's mulling over the implications of the phrase "on fleek." She can't live without iced coffee, a portable phone charger, or equal pay. Say hello!

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