Allowing myself to blog at night has liberated me.  I can barely walk most mornings, much less type.  My eyes don’t focus until I’ve been awake for a half an hour; my feet stumble; my brain groans as I strain to connect the misfiring across my synapses.

But at night, I’ve already been awake for fifteen hours.  A full day of stimulation courses across those brain cells, firing at will in my unique arrhythmic and irregular pattern. Voices of everyone who crossed my path join to remind me of the vibrancy of my life.

As I bolted up my driveway tonight, in the pelting rain, I heard my dog snuffling in her house.  Hold on, I shouted.  I’ll let you in!  I’m home!  My flags hung dripping over the steps but the lights on my deck shone steady in the dark and wind.  I threw my computer bag down, suddenly picturing my house keys sitting on the car seat.  Back down the driveway went I, my Dansko clogs clicking on the asphalt.  I skirted the habitual pool of drain water and nipped back into the Prius.  Once I had secured the keys, I skittered back to the house, sparing another shout for my poor little dog hunkered down in the shelter.

Before unlocking the door, I stood watching the rain.  I could not stop myself from smiling.  I like my home.  With the setting of the sun you can no longer see the fallen branches, or the dead marigolds, or the poorly patched concrete.  Rain washes away the  muck and darkness hides the imperfections.

Tonight I have no complaints.  When the sun rises, they will all rush back to gloat and chortle, my demented evil muses.  But now, as my Wednesday draws to a close, I revel in a sense of rightness.

It’s the twenty-fourth day of the thirty-second month of My [Endless] Year Without Complaining.  This one’s dedicated to all of you who try, and who are not sure if you are winning.  It doesn’t matter.  Forge on. We’re all bozos on this bus.






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