But it was in my bed—where I am almost positive my memory foam loves me just as much as I love it.
In eight days I hadn’t slept in the same house any two consecutive days. I traveled more than 900 miles in that time, but never made it more than 150 miles away from my house.
I worked three different jobs and comforted half a dozen miniature humans—including the world’s weirdest 9-year-old and the world’s cutest 7-week-old.
I lost a fight with a blackberry bush.
I missed one deadline, but managed to successfully meet seven others. I fixed a camera and broke an iPhone.
I was kicked in the face. I laughed afterward. But I also smashed both my funny bones—I didn’t laugh either time.
I planted flowers and tore out weeds. I napped in the grass and also in my car. I should have slept at least 56 hours in those eight days. I’m pretty sure I might have slept only 37.
I had long rambling chats with friends in Chicago and Nashville. And spilled my guts to loves in San Jose and Seattle.
I had Indian food in three different cities. And spent two whole days forgetting to eat.
I collected thousands of dollars worth of tools and treasures for FREE. But I also emptied my bank account (and I mean emptied) to purchase the foundation for my tiny house.
I have felt beautiful a hundred different times, effectively negating all of grade 7.
I have danced in a grocery store and spoken Norwegian with a stranger and been hit on from a moving vehicle.
I have angry cried about church and happy cried about reconciliation.
I was interviewed by police and stopped by border patrol.
I was exhausted for nearly every single minute of it. When my Fearless Leader asked if I had too much on my plate, I replied with, “I ALWAYS have too much on my plate. I love my full plate.”
I want to LIVE every minute. I want to TASTE it all. I’m too busy dancing around the world to be worried that I’m not really headed anywhere. I’m not doing it right. I’m not normal. I might never really grow up. And right now, I feel pretty good about that.