Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves

I woke up this morning, as I do most mornings, with a niggling sense of apprehension. My brain says to me, "Elizabeth Paige Austin (my brain addresses me like an angry parent), what are you going to do with yourself?" The meager reply I eke out is, "Feed the cats, get in the shower, wake up Luis, and then, maybe, I'll think about it."

I feel like time is slipping through my fingers like so much smooth sand. I desperately want to hold on to it, slowing its passage to a bearable speed, removing each grain deliberately until I am ready, finally, to let go of the entire handful. Instead, I grab errant fistful after fistful, waking up each morning with a sense that today should be my day, the day where I do something. It never is.

I am not proud of this. I am not proud of the fact that I didn't go to graduate school right after undergrad. I am not proud of the fact that I've abandoned so many of my dreams because of their perceived impracticalities. Most of all, I resent my own indecision.

Luis is always telling me to calm down, take a look around, and appreciate what I have. He doesn't need me to tell him he's right. I'll get there... eventually.