She wants me on meds, my therapist. For the umpteenth time since my angst riddled teen years, I resist.

I’ve caved on multiple previous occasions. Paxil, Lexapro, Celexa, Zoloft, Wellburtin. We’re ex-lovers. In the beginning it was all promises of frosty drinks in the Bahamas, but they delivered decaf in Seattle. Dreary, bland, with a deliberate and distinct lack of life and light.

I’d rather struggle with the lows and still have the highs than have nothing at all, I say.

She makes me promise to exercise, to consume plenty of Omega 3’s and to try an herb (for shits and giggles). I agree. Again. I agree knowing that my schedule these days is 90% of the problem, and that sleep is more crucial to what’s left of my sanity than waking at 4am for a walk. I’m breaking my promise already, and might need a cast after not having made it out of bed yesterday at all.

My sister once referred to me as “high functioning” which is a really nice way of saying “you’d never know by looking at her that she’s bat-shit crazy”. I kid. I’m not crazy… I just struggle harder than most to go through the motions and not cry when standing on a street corner with The Mc eating a perfectly tasty ice cream cone and giving him the short version of The Giving Tree because (as my old friend Heather will tell you) I “feel too much”.

I’m human, and I’m flawed.

Greg Laswell: Sing, Theresa Says Lazy link love, do with it as you will.

Great line:

everyone is sharpening up their angles

My friend Amanda recommended Eat, Pray, Love a few months ago over coffee, and though I didn’t fully grasp the pitch/concept/plot I filed the suggestion away on my to-read list. Much like my interludes with The Celestine Prophecy and On the Road; I resisted the book at first, based on…nothing. Vapor. Air. Absence of knowledge.

Weeks later during a binge visit to a local book store in preparation for the beach, I bought the book up and threw it in the stack along with What Jesus Meant , The Company of a Courtesan and a few others.

In the stack is where it sat until last week, when it was paroled for good behavior and I packed it up for the road trip to visit The Mc’s mom. Now - much like the others that sunk my mental Battleship - I know.

I opened the pages and found a familiar voice: one of a thirty four year old divorcee who found herself on the bathroom floor one night crying at the realization she didn’t want to be married anymore. That she didn’t want babies. That her dream looked considerably different from everyone else’s and that it was going to hurt to chase it. Then she went back to bed.

The font is tiny and the margins are slim and though that packs plenty of words on every page I’m still almost resentful the reading is so easy and enjoyable because the pages fly by and I want her adventure to last like those thirty minutes you find in between seven minute snooze button explosions. I tried to slow my progress with a margarita or three, and it worked. I made it through Italy (which I’m now yearning to visit) and stopped at India because a) it got too heady for someone a wee tipsy and b) drinking and philosophy don’t mix c) I felt sacrilegious.

A conversation documented in the book suggests every city has one word that describes it: for Rome the word is Sex, and for New York the word is Ambition.

So here I am the morning after and the book is still hanging with me like a sunburn and at the risk of starting a damn book club with you, I have to ask this: what word describes your city and what word describes you?

If you ask me (which I just did) I would say the word for Atlanta (the whole, mind you, not pockets of community) could be Lost and me? I’m still thinking about what my word is. Maybe Restless.

What’s yours?

My internets. Which means I’m cut off. From the WORLD.

This leaves me with no other choice than to grab a few girls from the office and head straight for the Rebel Flag Mecca when the whistle blows. Did you know it’s eight frigging dollars to get in that place to touch a big ole rock? For eight dollars, I want a different kind of rock. And I want it on my hand. And if it’s not that kind of rock, at least let it be the kind that will fit in my pocket and has googly eyes.

Pictures here, I gotta get to work.