Today, I woke up in one of those funks you get when you realize you are not as resilient as you used to be, that bouncing up in the morning won't always happen. With the feeling came the self-pitying tropes, I am alone, I'm past my prime, I'm probably not going to enjoy getting old. I wallowed in that with my coffee for a while, let abandonment and insecurity have a field day with me. It was around 70 today, Indian summer, the wind strong and chaotic as my mind.
I considered going back to bed, but instead started writing. Words flowed. I forgot to eat, and gradually realized I needed to do that. So I brushed my hair, put on a dress, piled in the truck and went to the grocery. Oldies played on the Muzak. I gave a stock boy the once-over; he checked out my derriere and asked how I was doing with a big young grin.
In every desert there is water somewhere. When you find it, drink your fill.