I am achy

I am achy. I don't know how I could be happy and achy at the same time, but somehow that's what's happening.

I just got off the phone with family. "You sound great! Sooo much better than before." I must be getting good at muscling through shittiness.

The artist is patient and kind. I joke about the things that raise my hackles. We call them "flags." "You put up your flags, missy, but I don't think they're stop signs. They just help me understand you, that's all." 

I am grateful he wants to understand.

We spent Sunday reading craigslist stories and laughing until we cried. (Well, I cried, he farted. Romantic, huh.)

Also good: I started ballet class Saturday.

The achiness. Well, my ex posted photos of his new beau on his blog, for the first time since we broke up over a year ago.

I want him to be happy, and not in a sarcastic kind of way, but in a well, since I can't be that person I hope she can kinda way. But it still aches. It hurts to feel replaced, even though I logically know that's a ridiculous way of looking at things. No one has ever been "replaced" for me.

Also, I heard from aqua-eyed boy and assembled a care package for him because it makes me happy.

Happy and achy. I like ache. Muscles ache when they've been used. My heart has been used. But that's good, right? It's been filled and emptied and shaken and squeezed and though this means it's sometimes sore, it's there to be exercised.

workit!

Life is good even when it isn't always.

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Also, bonus pic for the so inclined faithful readers who got all the way down to this point. Boobs! (Although I don't think any guys read this blog.)

I'm not really sure where this fits in, but it showed up under my "life is good" google image search. Too hilarious not to post even if in no way related!