If I really really wanted what they have, I could do what they do, is another option. Or a teeny, tiny little bit more of what they do might get me a teeny, tiny little bit more of what they have: different body, different income, different swagger in the world.

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Today’s the day I let go of feeling sub-optimal about what I do, have, and am. And feel grateful I get to do what I do, have what I have, and be who I am. I do enough. I have enough. I am enough.

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The last few days my anxiety has been up, way up, for no particular reason that I can determine. I mean, of course I can rattle off the laundry list of stuff going on currently that I could use as evidence to justify my anxiety — things are happening, life is in session, people are existing according to their plan, not mine, there’s too much plastic, all that.

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Let’s begin: I do enough. I have enough. I am enough. Ok. So I know all that, intellectually. And, in my heart, or maybe belly, or foot, there is still that little speck of, “Well, sure, enough ... BUT ... I could do, have, and be more.” And that BUT is what for many years ran the show, drove me and my life, my relationships, actions, choices.

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So I went to my 30th high school reunion this weekend with my BFF Bianca Babesberg. I love her so much but over the years she’s also represented a bit of a thorn in my ego paw. Not her fault, she’s doing her. But she seems to be doing it so damn well, and so damn successfully and happily, while looking smoking hot all the time btw, that it’s tough to stand in the shadow of that, or even near it — and I am clear that I am the person making the shadow, doing the comparison rather than co-existence thing, with this person who I love and who loves me and who doesn’t do what she does to make me feel shitty, whose life is not about me, really at all, but rather includes me, or can include me, if I let it.

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It’s not like I forget exactly but every now and then I’m reminded that I’m gonna die, my kid is gonna die, and everyone I know is gonna die — and not on my schedule. So then it becomes what do I want to do with this turn at living? What kind of person do I want to be in the world? How do I want to enjoy this earthly body, this life, this trip? What are my values?

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This Summer my dream is that I enjoy Ax’s company when I have it. That I stay calm and accepting in the face of marathon lego sessions, sofa cushion fort-building and destroying, loud cartoons, and rejections of my offers for outings to the beach, zoo, playground, hiking trails, tennis courts or any other outdoor wholesome activities.

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Yesterday Ax and I returned to the tennis court for a lesson with Coach Tommy. The plan was I’d watch Ax for half an hour, then take fifteen minutes for myself, which is all I wanted to test my foot with.

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Ax still eats cheese tortellini marinara every day. He’s trained me to stop trying new foods and I have, mostly. He eats cheese tortellini for lunch and dinner and chocolate chip muffins or chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast.

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It’s been the longest stretch of not blogging in a few years and I was starting to get that stick to beat myself with and then I thought well, maybe I’ll just put myself on my sofa with coffee and a blanket and my writing stuff and see what happens.

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Every now and then, well pretty frequently actually, things don’t work out the way I planned them to or perhaps wanted them to. People, situations, and logistics don’t come together as they would if I were the writer/director/producer of my existence.

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So I was whining to my friend Verdura about my tummy troubles and she told me that I should imagine green light surrounding and soothing it.

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So every week my group of six and seven-year-old recess writers begin their session by composing a group list poem based on a prompt I give them.

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My friend Jinx is launching her fifth or sixth successful business and after a long day of meetings she came over, flopped down in one of the stained white club chairs, and wondered aloud, “Is it a power shoe if there’s no heel?”

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A lot of the time I have this feeling like, “Where the eff did my day go?” Like all of a sudden it’s time to pick up Ax, or even time to go to bed, and I know I was busy all day doing stuff that seemed like it needed to get done but I kinda don’t know what I was doing or why it took up so much space.

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I was explaining to my friend and advisor Glinda the other day about everything and how debatable and not exactly tortured but not exactly at peace I was about this and that like what am I doing with my life and is it enough and all the ways it could be different, more, better and what about Ax, and then there’s Mike, and also these other things and people and situations, and after a while of listening to me and my plans, dreams, and doubts, she was like, “Stop it!”

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It’s all of it. Chicken suits, stilettos, burritos, Vegas-style showgirl headdresses, native-American style headdresses, crisp white jeans, pinstriped suits, pumps, flats, sneaks, combat boots, flip flops, wedges, hair extensions, fake nails, fake boobs, fake cheeks, closed hearts, hurt souls, sore soles, hot pants, tube tops, and starting now private jet maintenance is tax-deductible. Phew.

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