It's more fun to read blogs than to write them — at least for me it is.
That may seem a betrayal of my profession, but I write all day. Must I really tap out scintillating commentary here?
Not that anything I've written here is groundbreaking, earth-shattering, Lady Gaga-in-an-egg sort of stuff. I just don't have the energy.
I feel like that old cartoon character, groaning over and over again at the slightest hint of promise, "It'll never work."
Besides, all I could ever hope for now is the occasional reader willing enough to let me slip onto the figurative psychiatrist couch. We could talk about how sorely I miss my dad, who died more than three months ago; how, every day, something happens that I say, "I've got to tell Dad about … Oh, yeah, I guess not"; how I wish he could be here to watch Benny's upcoming first baseball practices and games. We could talk about how I have to tell myself not to push Benny too hard into baseball as a way to reconnect with my dad; or how baseball season's started again, and it's the first one where we can't discuss the Tigers' prospects.
Everyone's been through the loss of a parent, but having both gone just bites.
I'm trying to channel my energies into other things: I've joined the handbell choir at church; I'm working out more regularly; I took my first yoga class tonight, and if I can get out of bed tomorrow morning without my muscles contorted into some weird pose, I'll be just dandy; and I've even started working — ploddingly, mind you — on a novel and a kid's book.
Every day, and in every way, I'm getting better and better.