Yes, my life on paper is as follows:
Single mother, father of child moved away (to California, where it's warm)
30+ pounds to lose, stretch marks and amazing elastic stomach (could sell it to the circus)
Living at home, broken car, no steady job (which means no new shoes)
History of crippling depression
4 pairs of pants that fit: 3 pairs of sweatpants and 1 pair of maternity jeans (and pancake butt to boot)
No wonder I'm constantly asked if I'm doing okay. When you write it all out, or say it all in a row out loud, things could definitely be better. In fact, you could sell my story to Lifetime TV. I just need to become a waitress, have Ricky show up to Finley's 3rd birthday party only to get beat up by Luke Wilson, then turn down Luke Wilson's baseball game marriage proposal because I've lost the weight, become comfortable with motherhood, and bought a convertible so I can finally drive to my community college graduation in style.
But if you've been one of the fantastic, compassionate people who have inquired about me, thank you. I am okay. In fact, if you asked, "How are you, really?" to me recently, you probably noticed my jaw dropping, my words disappearing. Because I honestly cannot find the words to describe it. Bittersweet is a word, a great one that feels fitting. But more sweet than bitter.
How am I?
I... am wonderful. I am still on new baby high. I don't think it's going away. I am more than okay. I am wonderful.
(Still blunderful, too. Hence my continuous bitching and whining. It's not going away, folks. Life is amazing, but sometimes the crappy times are just funnier. And who wants to read or write about cheesy, sunshine-y, Partridge Family type stuff? I'll take Daria over Quinn any day.)
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