I know I can write. I know I should write. I know I want to write. So, why don’t I write??? Great question! The answers are as myriad as the leaves about to start falling on my sunny, late summer Virginia lawn. I don’t have time, I need to go to work, Look at that dog hair – I really need to vacuum, I just don’t have anything great to say, I don’t know where to begin, whine, moan, bitch and complain…..

Inspiration surrounds me like, like….. well, kind of like traffic noise. It’s there, everywhere, omnipresent, no escape, but you don’t really notice it… it’s just there. My Mom has written (and published) two books. She is now (at the age of 87) on Facebook – wait till I tell her about YouTube! My lovely daughter writes fan fiction which she posts to world-wide rave reviews on various sites. But, remember, I don’t know where to begin. There are too many choices, how do I narrow them down? What is the first step, what do I name this character, what do I name this book, what do I say in this chapter, or this poem, or this conversation? Do I want to write a romance? Can I sell my writing? Can I stop working 70 hours a week and make enough money writing to maybe only work a “job” 30 or 40 hours a week? Or not at all? Other people surely do, but, of course, they are just that, “other people”.

Other people. They are the ones who drive new vehicles. They are the ones who eat out and have outfits, and manicures, and pedicures, and lie in tanning beds, and run 5K’s and have lunch with friends and know the best place for…..

I am not like other people. I drive an older vehicle. It has about 204,000 miles on it. We bought it for $300 on ebay. However, when we bought it, it was new to us…

I don’t eat out….. although every Friday, our team at work has Chick Fil A. We do this as a time honored (at least 5 or 6 weeks) tradition. Once my team scraped their collective jaws off the floor after hearing that I had attained the age of 49 without ever having eaten at Chick Fil A, they assured me my life was not complete, my existence sheltered beyond their comprehension. I am the designated driver. Every Friday evening, I collect the lists of orders, the cash, coupons and debit cards and drive to Chick Fil A. I suck on my chocolate shake (whipped cream, no cherry thank you) as I drive back to work and know that there is a God. I return to work in just under the alloted 40 minutes (I conjoin my two twenty minute breaks for my designated driver duties), make my way up the stairs with an armful of fragrant bags and a drink carrier with some of the finest sweet tea you can buy. So, yes, I guess I do eat out.

But outfits? No, I do not have outfits. I have clothes. I have a few pair of pants, some tee shirts, some great shoes (who would guess that someone who really did live in a barn for years would go crazy for handbags and shoes in her late 40’s?) and I wear what’s comfortable and clean, and fits… for the most part. Some of the things do go together, and I do have some nice coordinting jewelry to go with a few…. well, I guess maybe I do have a few outfits.

Other people have manicures and pedicures and lie in tanning beds. I give my nails a good scrub when they are dirty, clip them when they are long and wish them good luck the rest of the time. But when they are scrubbed and clipped, I guess that could count as a manicure…

Tanning bed? Nope. Afore mentioned talented daughter rails constantly against the dangers lurking in the wattage for the fair skinned and cancer prone. I just sport my farmers tan aquired by wearing my tees, and Pillsbury Dough Boy like legs which rarely see the light of day. This is a vicious cycle. Legs are white, legs remain covered. Legs are covered, legs remain white. And so it goes. I do occasionally indulge in fake tan though….

I almost ran a 5K once. I had trained, I was ready, I would have finished and everything (and we are only talking a handful of years ago here, not like high school days or some other epoch). The day before said 5k I was plowing the snow from the driveway and parking lot at our farm in Connecticut. I jumped off the tractor, hit a patch of ice and hyper extended my left knee. End of 5k. The following spring, while we were visiting our house in England, I was getting back into it nicely. Ran on the promenade along the beach every day. Getting stronger and more fit, feeling good about myself again. Then, walking down the stairs, I somehow managed to tear my achilles tendon. Good bye running, again. I am having knee surgery on Tuesday, though, and the achilles tendon was repaired four years ago, so maybe I will still get to my first 5K… at the age of 50.

Lunch with friends. I definitely don’t do this one, although, we do have our team Chick Fil A Friday dinner…..

As for knowing the best little place for….. Well, I know the best second hand stores, the best hay dealers, vets, blacksmiths. I know the friendliest dressage shows in the northeast, I know the best places to adopt a horse, or a cat, or a dog. I know the best place to be at the end of a long day, complete with down pillows and George (one of the cats) sleeping on my head….

So, perhaps there is someone, somewhere, reading this post and thinking – sure, she can do it, but I’m not like her…..

Of course you’re not. You’re unique, just like all the other people.