an old habit...

...of looking like she's moving fast. it keeps people from asking too many questions.

-storypeople

you wake up to the buzz of the alarm clock. it's a relief that the vibrations belong to something electronic, because you're pretty sure that if someone shook you at that obnoxious rate, they'd hear the pieces of your insides rattling around. the step down from clouds nine to three and a half is pretty steep, and disappointing to report. so you don't.

shower, shave, swab ears. find jeans. feed dogs. flip laundry. locate breakfast, lunch. pack. pop green tea in the microwave, start the car. grab the newspaper to bring into the house - except you're on the ground, because your heel got stuck in that driveway crack that's been there since you moved in. it's been covered and refilled countless times, but it always surfaces. in fact, your shoe is sticking out of the driveway, and you're lying under the bumper of your car (which conveniently tried to catch your head on the way down). so you do what you need to do, what you've needed to do - you curl up in a ball and cry in your driveway, marking the turquoise lining on your tweed coat, snotting into your mittens, holding your turtleneck up to your nose in an effort to block the new sunlight and buy yourself a little bit more time. and then you're done. your tea is ready. the car is warm. the red spots from ugly-crying will fade on the way to work. you're fine. you're back. you're okay. you always are, after all.

yeah, i'm back.