Astonishingly as I read on, I felt not jealousy but a grown detachment from that which had previously absorbed me. A small Martian in a shiny helmet and kneepads streaked along the path, followed by a puffing adult. I followed their progress, feeling that in this subject I could breathe more easily, and I seemed to have been granted a respite from professional rivalry. It was not that I did not care, but I did not care so very much anymore.
Excerpt from Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman by Elizabeth Buchan.
I had one of those hectic weekends that left me with a lot of time to think and a lot of time to not think. I don't know if that makes any sense. In my thinking I resolved not to think; that the thinking part of me should really belong to another Anita, the busy part should take over (and eventually did because I had so much to do) and reign supreme, leaving little or no time for brooding. And in my thinking or not thinking, I came up with the feeling described in the text above. It's not that I do not care, it's that I do not care so very much anymore. I shall, most of all, trust in God, who oversees all sidetracks in my life, and strive to take my own advice and do nothing, be still, listen. Most of all, do not worry about it.
That being said, you (meaning me) can't help thinking: what if I had done this differently, or that differently, or what do I need to change, or how can I change this or that, what life plans do I need to make? Pffft...mere thoughts that race through my mind in a 30 second vacuum. But I can only love the best way I can and hope that the right person appreciates it. Granted there are some things that need to change like my lack of cooking skills. However, this is me and me is in this for the long bumpy ride.
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