A Mental Health Check

Today I woke up depressed.

It happens. Not often anymore, in fact, the last time I felt like this was after Griffin's birth - and that was Depression (PPD, to be exact). So today's depression was little "d" and short lived.

Today's depression was like the head cold version of depression. You're functional, but not loving it. And I like equating mental health with physical health, because in many ways they're the same. None of us is immune to colds, or the flu, or infection. None of us is immune from depression, or anxiety, or other mental illnesses. And just like you can't "just get over" the flu, you can't "just get over" depression (or any other mental illness for that matter).

And just like some people will live with heart disease, or Diabetes, or osteoperosis for the rest of their lives, so will some people live with mental illness.

And just like some people will have a disease like bronchitis, take medication, and then get better and never be bothered by it again, so will some people suffer from depression, go to therapy (or, possibly take medication) and then get better and never be bothered by it again.

Unfortunately there is no reliable or approved OTC medication to alleviate the symptoms of depression like there is for the common cold. I mean, there's wine - but alcohol usually does more harm than good in these instances. Sex works for some. So does chocolate. But I can't go to Wallgreens and pick up a box of DayQuil:Depression (non drowsy, obviously).

I haven't always been so open about my battle with depression, and that's party because of the weird stigma we have about mental illness. Most people will agree that there's no shame in having a long term physical illness, but few will argue that there should be no shame in having a long term mental illness. Some of the most fantastic people are crazy (note: I'm using it as a term of endearment, and I use it about myself, so no hate mail please), and some of the most crazy people need us to help them get or stay functional.

I wouldn't consider my form of depression to be serious. But many people who DO have serious mental health problems need our support - as a society. They need us to say "hey, it's ok that you have XYZ. How can I help?" In the SAME way we'd take care of our coworkers with Diabetes by making the company potluck healthier, or bringing over food for our neighbor with cancer who's going through chemo.

I have, in my life, suffered from depression. I am fortunate that my episodes of depression are usually short lived, have thus far been remedied with talk therapy, have never required medication, and are infrequent. They go like this:

Heart: I cannot possibly move. The weight of the world is pressing my being into my bed and IwillneverbeabletoleavemybedIcannotmoveIamtootiredthisistoohardIcan'tdothis.

Head: how will you take care of your children to make love to your husband?

Heart: good question.... (long pause) well, since I'm lying in bed, I can still snuggle with the kids. And I'm in nearly perfect love-making position.

Head: You do realize you sound ridiculous right now, yes?

Heart: Sigh. Yes. I'll get up.

Head: Good.

Body: I have to pee.

Heart & Head: Shut up body. No one cares about you.

I may sound like I'm being facetious, but that's pretty much how things go... it's exactly how they went today. I spend the rest of the day listless, heavy hearted, moody, and on the verge of tears. I also treat my body horribly by either eating too much horrible food or by not eating anything at all. This happens until either 1. whatever triggered the depression resolves, or 2. I talk it out.

Today it resolved itself after a long nap (sleep deprivation is one of my triggers, which sucks because I have terrible insomnia). But since it's been such a long time since my last depression episode, it's probably a good idea if I find myself a talk therapist.

I'm still not feeling 100%. But I will. And I hope that my kids never have to go through anything worse than what I experienced today. Just like I hope they never have to have gallbladder surgery or deal with bronchitis year after year (because all of those things suck; I've had them all). I hope my kids never get the chicken pox, or pneumonia, or have anxiety attacks. But I know that odds are they'll get sick, physically and mentally. And regardless, I'll be there.

In the meantime, hopefully I can channel some of this into creative things. It did get me to write this post, which is a start. I do have an idea for a new story, but maybe I should finish the old one first.

So I opened my file today...

And wrote.

Well, a paragraph. Does that count? It's been the first time I've written anything since November 25th. I really want to finish, I'm starting to really like my characters... but I don't want to actually put in the work to write.

This is why I enjoy poetry. I can spend anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours writing and I have a completed piece at the end of it.

Maybe I should have tried a short story before I dove into novels.

But I do have a poem for you. I've been reluctant to post it because some people tend to read into my poetry. I suffer from an overactive imagination, so if I write about things that are depressing - it doesn't mean I'm depressed. If I write about relationship problems, it doesn't mean I'm currently experiencing any.

Although, to be completely honest, poems about relationship problems are probably inspired by past relationships. I may set them in the present, if only because the present provides a clearer setting. It's not always easy to remember details of the past even if I can recall the emotions.

So, with that said, here's a poem.

Silence

Silence stretches things

Makes them taut – like a rubber band

Frayed edges cause the band to break if stretched too thin

Silence stretches us

Each stretch stresses the edges,

Little tears that disappear once

a word, or

a touch, or

a kiss – mouth moving softly on lips, neck, collarbone…

Snaps it, snaps us, back to normal

And you can’t see the rip – so small

Tiny, really

Until silence stretches us again

And little tears grow wider

Silence is deadly

-Rodgers, 2012

The Fruits of my Labors

The following quote was taken from a student's paper.

"An analysis of this quote reveals the tone of the poem's theme, because it states a disturbing simile providing imagery for the reader."

Oh yeah. That lesson sunk in.

*headdesk*

A Poem

It's been awhile. Too long.

I actually haven't written anything for the novel yet, but I do have some poems. So here's one.

Enjoy.

Griffin

His pudgy hands always seem to be sticky

even as they clutch his new precious,

a cheap plastic toy,

topper for his watered down lemonade,

a treat that went with his unbuttered popcorn at the

Sunday matinee.

Movie watching,

it takes a lot out of a toddler.

Little legs grown heavy and slow on the walk home.

In my arms now,

his arms wrapped tightly around my neck,

baby curls grown long tickle my nose,

head beginning to nod

as my familiar gait rocks him to sleep.

My arms can’t keep up with each new growth spurt,

so mama’s boy becomes

daddy’s little man

as small bodies grow too big to be soothed at the breast.

Asleep now in daddy’s arms,

curls bounce with each step –

jumbled clouds that catch his dreams…

I can’t bear to cut them,

those baby curls.

He seeks me out after nap time,

allows me to clear away the sleep with a spattering of kisses

and his ever-sticky hands encircle my neck as a

breathy toddler voice whispers

“love oou mama”

and he brings his nose to mine for an Eskimo kiss.

I hope he never gets too big for that.

-JRodgers

I wrote today!

Not a lot, just shy of 2K words, but it was something. I'm now at 17,072.

And the break was good for my head. I figured out where I want this thing to go...

Jeanie, who obviously has a drinking problem, is ***SPOILER ALERT*** going to have a big blow-up at Tiny's bar, steal Aileen's keys, and get into an accident.

Don't worry, she doesn't die (and neither does anyone else). But it will be a huge wake-up call for her - and Aileen - as they will both learn something very important about themselves and relationships in general. Jeanie will have to face the consequences of her actions - as will Aileen (that I won't spoil for you - yet).

I thought that this would be the end of the novel, but after I'm done I'll probably still be 10-15K short. So I may have to add in another conflict. We'll see.

I have finally started to connect with my characters in a way that makes me really want to finish this project, instead of finishing out of a sense of obligation. It was Jeanie's accident that did it. I felt like I couldn't just leave her there, that she really needed help. When I finally started to see my characters as people, and not just figments of my imagination, then I became much more invested in their well-being. Funny how that works, isn't it?

Here is what I wrote today (I have not re-read since I wrote it, this is raw). It takes place in the last half of the book, so far beyond what I've posted so far.

----------

            We decided that it was best if we left separately. Although anyone paying attention could have put two and two together. Luckily for us, the bar was still reeling from Jeanie’s grand exit and no one was paying much attention to us. No one except Tiny.

            I walked out first and made my way to the bar where Tiny caught my eye.

            “Drink?” he asked, with one eyebrow raised.

            I just nodded. I didn’t trust myself to talk without blurting out what had just happened and I didn’t want to pile one more drama to what was already a dramatic evening.

            Tiny performed his magic behind the bar. He put four or five different liquids into a tumbler with ice, shook it, and poured it into a tall glass. It was pink and it was delicious.

            “So,” he said, after I nodded my approval. “How was it?”

            “Delicious,” I said, “I don’t know what you put in in, but I love it.”

            He smiled at me, “that’s not what I meant.”

            I blushed and turned away. Damn him, I thought, how the hell does he always KNOW everything?

            “You don’t have to say anything,” he grinned, “I just got the conformation I was looking for. Enjoy the drink, I’ll be back later.” And he moved on to the other side of the bar where Alex, Jennifer, and some of the other burlesque dancers were standing.

            I sighed and took another sip. What was I going to do about Jeanie? About Christian? I suddenly felt exhausted.

            Christian appeared behind the bar, reached for my hand, and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

            “You ok?” he looked concerned. I guess I looked as tired as I felt.

            “Yeah, I’m just tired I think,” I replied with a half smile. “And a little upset and confused I guess. It’s all hard to sort out.”

            “I hope you’re not upset about what happened in the storage room,” he said quickly, concerned.

            “No, no,” I reassured him. “I’m not upset about that or upset with you. It’s just… well, it’s just Jeanie.”

            “I know,” he shook his head. “I’m worried too. But there’s nothing we can do right now. Maybe she’ll have  calmed down by tomorrow and we can talk to her.”

            “Yeah, you’re right. I should just try and enjoy the rest of the night. Someone did call a cab for her, right?”
            “I think so, I’ll go check with Tiny.” He squeezed my hand one more time and then made his way over to where Tiny was making a round of the same pink drink for the burlesque dancers.

            I turned back toward my drink and took a few more sips. I should check my phone, I thought to myself, maybe she’s sent me a text message. I doubted it, but she might have cooled down or sobered up enough to at least let me know she made it home ok. Even though she had just made a complete ass of herself, and embarrassed me in front of dozens of people, I was still worried about her. She was just… well, Jeanie. Immature, yes. Exasperating, definitely. But she had been my best friend for over five years and I loved her, I just couldn’t let go of that in one night.

            I got up and grabbed my purse from behind the DJ’s booth. I sat back down and pulled my phone out of my purse. No texts. No missed calls. Nothing. I sighed, disappointed, but not surprised.

            Christian and Tiny reappeared in front of me, both men looked worried.

            “A cab was called,” Tiny spoke first. “But the cab driver just came in and said that he’s been waiting outside for over 15 minutes and no one’s showed up.”

            I looked at Christian; my stomach was starting to knot up.

            “I’m going to drive around the block,” he said, sensing my concern, “I bet I’ll find her walking toward Fair Oaks. Can I me borrow your keys, my car’s in the shop.”

            “Sure,” I said, rifling through my purse. No keys. “I can’t find my keys.” The knot in my stomach grew larger. I had my keys and Jeanie when I walked in, Jeanie is now gone and so are my keys. Coincidence? I think not.

            “I think she took my car,” it was barely more than a whisper and I felt sick just saying it. She had been so, so drunk. Oh please please please let it not be true. Please let her be ok. Please let her have been pulled over and hauled off to the drunk tank and not smashed against a tree. Please please please. I though to myself as I handed my purse to Christian and squeezed my eyes shut.

            He checked my purse. No keys.

            I got up wordlessly and walked toward the exit. Christian and Tiny joined me. Tiny shouted to the third bartender: “Meagan, the bar is yours, we’ll be right back.”

            Alex gave us a look as we walked past and Tiny tersely shook his head as if to say bad news. She joined us.

            The air outside was crisp and cold. I shivered and Christian put his arms around me. My car was gone. I had parked on the side of the bar, not quite close enough for the bouncers to see it from their posts at the front door. Two parking spots closer and they would have clearly seen Jeanie get in the car. I’m sure they would have stopped her. I wished they had stopped her anyway.

            “It’s gone.” My voice was surprisingly strong. I felt like collapsing, but at least I sounded like I was in control. “She must have taken it.”

            “Hopefully she got pulled over on Fair Oaks,” Tiny replied, turning towards me, “she has to pass that way to get home and they’re almost always out this time of night. She’s probably in the back of a police car or sobering up in the drunk tank right now.” His confidence was infectious.

            “We can call CHP,” Alex suggested. “And I’m sure she’ll call Tiny or myself to come bail her out.” Alex’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of Christian’s arms around me. Thankfully she didn’t say anything; I don’t think I was quite ready for that conversation.

            My phone rang. Oh thank goodness, I thought to myself. It’s Jeanie; she’s calling to tell me she’s ok or needs to be bailed out.

            “It’s Jeanie,” I said as I pulled my phone out of my pocket. A smiling picture of her greeted me and I swiped to answer.

            “Hello? Jeanie? Are you ok?” I asked in quick succession.

            “Ma’am, this is Officer Flemming,” a male voice replied. My heart sank. A police officer wouldn’t be calling to tell me Jeanie needed to be bailed out of jail. An officer wouldn’t call to tell me she was home safe. Office Flemming continued, “this number was listed as the ‘In Case of Emergency’ number in the victim’s phone. May I get your name please?”

            Victim? Oh sweet Sons of Anarchy, I thought to myself, this is not happening.

            “My name is Aileen. Aileen Greer,” I told the officer, “I’m Jeanie’s best friend.”

            Christian, Alex, and Tiny’s faces were a wall of concern. What’s going on? Christian mouthed. I don’t know I mouthed back and turned away from the three of them. I needed to focus on the phone and I didn’t think I could handle looking at the three of them at the same time.

            “Well Ms. Greer, Miss Robinson has been in an accident. It appears as though she was driving under the influence when she hit a parked car…”

            “Is she ok?” I interrupted.

            “She’s being transported to Memorial Hospital on Independence. I do not know the extent of her injuries. Do you have a number for a family member?”

            “Yeah, I have her mother’s number. But she’s all the way out in Montana. I’m the only one she has that’s close. I think she was driving my car too, it’s a light blue Honda Civic.”

            “That does fit the description of the vehicle at the scene. Did you give Ms. Robinson permission to use your vehicle? Did you know she was intoxicated?”

            “No and yes. I knew she was drunk, but I didn’t let her use my car. We called her a cab but she must have decided not to wait.”

            “Who is “we” ma’am?”

            “Our friends, we were all at Speakeasy on Fair Oaks for a friend’s show. She got upset, we had an argument, and she left. I went into another part of the bar and… to get away… and when I came back into the room she had left. When I realized my keys were gone she’d been gone for over a half an hour.”

            “Would you like to press charges for the theft of your vehicle?” he asked.

            Press charges? Oh good gracious.

            “Um, no? I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m just a little in shock.”

            Ok, well I may have some more questions for you later. I have your number now.”

            “Yeah, any questions you have… was there anyone else in the car or in the parked car? She didn’t hurt anyone, did she?”

            “Fortunately no one else was involved, although it does look as though both cars are totaled. If she had drifted into the other lane it would have been a different story.”

            I sighed in relief. At least no one else was involved. I hoped my insurance would cover to replace the car, but no amount of insurance money would replace a life. I hoped she was going to be ok, because I was going to kill her for driving drunk.

            “I’ll be in touch,” Officer Flemming said.

            “Thank you Officer,” I replied as I hung up and turned toward my three friends.

Slump

I'm in a slump, evidenced by the fact that I'm writing this post instead of anything for the novel.

I can blame it on a lot of things, but the real reason is that I'm just exhausted and I way overreached when taking on this rather ambitious project.

That isn't to say I'm stopping, because I will finish this novel. I just don't think it's realistic for me to finish in the month of November. This week is Thanksgiving, next week I'm giving Benchmarks to my students, and then the month is over. The first weekend in December is the girl-child's 4th birthday and then it's finals and grading is due. Then winter break.

So writing lands on my low list of priorities... and did I mention I have homework? Like, my own teacher homework? This is thankfully my last year in BTSA (if you really want to know what it is, google it. The basics: it sucks). I really do have too many things up in the air...

I'm hoping to find time to write Wednesday in between pies (that's my Thanksgiving task). I'm also hoping to devote a good amount of time over winter break to writing. We have to pay for daycare regardless, and so I'll keep the kids in daycare for a few days and spend some time writing, lesson planning, and cleaning (isn't my life exciting?).

But this writing is hard work, without any real immediate return. While I don't expect everything I do to have instant gratification, I didn't really expect <i>nothing</i>. There's not much motivating me to write instead of, say, watch The Big Bang Theory. There's no pull to continue the story when I'm not really emotionally connected to it.

So I'm in a weird spot, where I'm determined to finish because I want to say that I have - and a part of me wants to quit completely because if I'm only doing this for me, then what's the point again? It's not like poetry, where the writing is cathartic. This story, while involving characters that are combinations of people I really know, doesn't hold any pull for me. There's no emotional buy-in from my end. I like Aileen, and I know too many Jeanie's... but... I don't know. I just don't feel like there's a compelling need to finish their story.

I will though. But just not in the month of November.

Maybe this summer I need to write one that I can really connect to.

Of course, it's likely I'll be teaching summer school. No wonder every English teacher is "working on" a novel - we never have time to finish anything as our jobs zap our time, energy, and (sometimes) will to live.

Kidding. Mostly.

I am a terrible writer and should just quit

I don't really mean that.

Well, maybe a little.

 I've written 488 words today and am 10,000 words behind schedule. I don't have enough plot to fill another 10,000 words, let alone the 35,000 I need to get to 50,000. I am tired, I am stressed, I want to be done.

Would you like to hear about my day?

Wake up at 5:45, get ready, feed kids breakfast, kiss kids goodbye
7:00 get to work
7:15 staff meeting
8:00 start work
10:00 lock my classroom, run to the staff bathroom and pee for the first time
12:04 eat lunch while giving kids make-up tests, grade conferencing, and answering e-mails
1:40 pee for the second time (which is a minor miracle, usually I only get to pee once a day)
3:00 start after school tutorial
4:00 end after school tutorial, stuff papers in bag, bike home
4:15-5:00 at neighbor's house while our kids play together, plan our kid's 4th birthday parties
5:10 make dinner
5:45 eat dinner
6:00-7:00 play puzzles, get treated like a jungle gym, catch up on twitter (hey, I needed down time).
7:00 baths
7:20 watch Ruby Gloom
7:45 Bryan reads to kids while I fire up the laptop
8:00-10:00 stare forlornly at my novel, eek out 488 words, feel like a failure.
10:03 write a self-pitying blog post and contemplate going to bed I have hit a wall.

According to my nanowrimo pep talker, that usually happens at 25,000 words. *facepalm*

This means I don't have anything new for you, but I do have stuff I wrote last week, so you get that. Maybe if you love it I'll be inspired to write more tomorrow.

            The sun was now high overhead and it was starting to feel like the 7^th level of hell if only because breathing in the corset wasn’t getting any easier. I had been hoping that I would get used to it as the day passed, but I was sorely disappointed. Literally. My ribs felt sore.

            We had made the rounds of the site and I had met more people than I could ever remember. I’d had tea with the Queen (who kept character even when behind the scenes), been serenaded by Shakespeare, had more raw seafood pushed into my face by people Jeanie called “mongers”, and watched the most bawdy puppet show I’d ever seen. Although, in all honesty, it was the only puppet show I’d ever seen. Still, it was pretty bawdy. I hadn’t realized that puppets knew those words. It certainly would have made Elmo blush.

            It was just past 3, and we had been at Faire for almost 4 hours. I had started to realize that the way most of the regulars coped with being stuck in uncomfortable corsets was to drink. The alehouses were doing big business and half of the paid staff had a flask or two on them. Tiny called it “recreational alcoholism.” Even though the booze was free flowing, very few people were drunk. Except Jeanie. She had taken drinking to a whole new level and I was starting to get worried about her. I’d seen her drink before, but never like this.

            “Hey Jeanie,” I said to her as we passed by the beer garden and she had refilled her flask with something Tiny kept behind the counter, “maybe you should slow down a little, it’s only 3. Also, I’m not sure how much longer I can stand being in this thing, when are we leaving?”

            “Oh chill Aiai, is jus’ Faire, evey buddy drinks at Faire,” she slurred. “An I’m not redy ta leave yet. Jus’ have ‘nother round ‘n have fun.”

            I sighed. If I had the keys I would have forced the issue, but she had put them in Christian’s tent shortly after we got to Faire and I didn’t know where he was camped.

            “Fine, we’ll stay. But you’re cut off,” I grabbed her flask.

            “Damn it Aileen, give it back,” she protested, but I was taller and not drunk, so the struggle was a short one. “Fine,” she huffed, “I’ll just go get a drink from Tiny!”

            She stumbled back toward the ale-stand where Tiny was directing a small army. I followed her, annoyed.

            Tiny smiled as we approached and motioned for us to meet him at the “backstage” entrance. The Faire site was set up almost like a giant, oblong donut. The booths in the middle all faced outward and had a separate entrance/exit through the back that lead to a makeshift alleyway where vendors kept various supplies, staff took breaks, and a few tents were set up. There were 2 other entrances to the area, but you had to know where to look as they were quite cleverly disguised. I hadn’t decided if I was going to nickname this place Diagon Alley or the Labyrinth. Diagon Alley was slightly nerdier, but some of the costuming from the Labyrinth worked better. It was at this point that I decided that I needed to get out more.

            Tiny met us in Diagon Alley (it just rolls off the tongue better, I though to myself) and gave Jeanie a hug.

            “Afternoon ladies,” he greeted us, “what can I do for you?”

            “Aileen’s decided to be a party pooper.” She said, holding on to him as much for balance and for affection, “she took away my flask.”

            “Yes, that’s me, the party police,” I replied sarcastically. “Look Jeanie, you can barely stand up straight. You need to take a break.”

            Tiny raised his eyebrows at me and mouth thanks.

            “Let me get you something special Jeanie,” he replied as he helped her sit on a bale of hay. He disappeared into the ale stand and returned with a small hollowed out horn. “Drink this.”

            “What is it?” She asked, reaching for the horn. “Rum?”

            She drank, made a face, and handed it back.

            Tiny let out a belly laugh, “no, it’s water. You’re going to have one hell of a hangover if you don’t drink some more water.”

            Jeanie drunkenly struggled to her feet.

            “Imma big girl. I can handle m’self,” and she turned and walked out of Diagon Alley, leaving Tiny and I alone.

            “I should go get her,” I said, turning toward the exit.

            “No, let her go, she’ll be ok.” Tiny reassured me. “Christian is right outside working the tug-of-war game and she won’t go far without him. She’ll soon forget we were so “mean” to her and come back later. You, sit.” He pointed toward the hay bale that Jeanie had recently vacated.

            I sat. I was hot, uncomfortable, dirty, and exhausted. While parts of the day had been fun, this latest spat with Jeanie had zapped my energy. Tiny handed me the water.

            “Thanks,” I said and drank thirstily. “You’re good at spotting someone in need of hydration.”

            “Well, I own a bar, so I should be by now,” he smiled and sat down on the hay bale across from me.

            “In town?” I asked. While I wasn’t exactly a bar-fly, I had been to a lot of the bars in towns for occasional shows or girls nights out and I don’t recollect ever seeing Tiny. He’s not someone you could easily forget.

            “Yeah, it’s on the other side of town. It’s called Speakeasy, just off of Fair Oaks.”

            “Oh, I know that place! They have that burlesque show every month.”

            “Yup, that’s us!” he admitted happily. “Alex is the head of the burlesque troupe. They’ve been performing there for almost two years now. It’s our busiest night. I’m trying to get her to agree to come once a week.”

            “Which one is Alex? Is that the Queen?” I asked. I was terrible with names.

            A voice from behind me laughed.

            “Hell no, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that getup!”

            I turned to see a tall, blonde in a blue and green bodice and skit. She was beautiful and had a very welcoming air about her. We were about the same build and height, but where I was large busted, she was small. Other than that, we probably could have shared a closet. Her eyes were her most striking feature; one was a vibrant green and the other a pale blue. I couldn’t help but stare.

            She smiled. “The eyes, right?”

            I blushed, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” she flopped down next to me on the hay bale. “I’m much, much rather people stare at my eyes than at my incredibly huge ass.”

            “What?” I shifted positions to see for myself, “You don’t have a…”

            Alex giggled, “I know, I just love that joke. That way I get compliments on my eyes and my butt in the same conversation.”

            I laughed and Tiny smiled and shook his head, “You’re naughty Alex.”

            “Yes, yes I am, and that’s why you love me!” She blew Tiny a kiss and he pretended that it knocked him off his hay bale. We all laughed, I liked her.

            “So, you know me now, but I don’t know you,” Alex turned toward me, “are you new to Faire?”

            I nodded, “yes, this is my first time. My best friend brought me out today to meet all her new friends. I’ve met so many people I can hardly remember all of them.”

            “So you’re Jeanie’s friend?” she asked, “Alieen, right?”

            “That’s me!”

            “Wonderful! Jeanie’s told me all about you. You’re a blogger, right?”

            I laughed and shook my head, “No, no… Jeanie likes to make up new professions for me every so often. She thinks what I do isn’t sexy enough and claims that it’s my job that keeps me single. I’m actually a Kindergarten teacher.”

            “I dunno,” Alex said, “nothing says sexy like basic geometric shapes and dress up!”

            I laughed. Yes, I was definitely going to like her.