I’m sorry I’ve been AWOL lately. I haven’t been in a good state of mind, and it’s hard to motivate yourself to log on, fight with passwords, and spill your heart when you don’t want to get off the couch. It’s also hard to be inspired to share your life when you’re not pleased with everything. A state of boredom, I suppose.

I’ve been so out-of-sorts lately, when I made the two and a half hour drive to see my best friend last weekend, I took no pictures. None. Not of the Pretty Prairie rodeo, not of us (relevant because we’ve been mentioning since my graduation that there are no pics of us together post-freshman year), not of his nice house or pretty scenery or adorable dogs (an Aussie-Lab and a 6 month old bloodhound that’s all feet and tongue), not of anything we did over the weekend. Well, I took one of the pie I made before I left, to tempt him for the second half of his day at work. Ornery? Yes. He deserves it.

I’m your typical girl. I like clothes, and shoes, and I’m slightly vain — even going to the dirt track races last night, I wanted to look presentable. I fuss over hair and makeup (not that you would know it by looking at me most days) and agonize over how clothes fit and how to make myself look even better. And yet, I avoid pictures. Not a huge self-portrait taker, not willing to give my camera to a stranger to take a full screen shot. I’m a voracious shutterbug, but not of myself… I have dozens of Oklahoma sunsets, the calf crop, the new trucks and combines, of craft projects from around the house, but I think there are maybe¬†two pics of the happy couple on our honeymoon. Is that normal?

I wonder if it’s because I’m in such a frustrated state that I don’t want to remember this time. I’m not happy with how my life is. I don’t know if I made bad choices to wind up where I am, or if I’m just a circumstance of bad luck. I refuse to admit that “it’s out of my control” and therefore feel personally responsible for my state of mind. It’s not my Better Half’s fault, not my boss’s, not my coworkers’. It’s not my family’s, it’s not my friends’, it’s not my hateful mother in law’s fault. The only person who can make sure that I’m happy is me. Even the grace of God is meaningless to my happiness if I choose to refuse it. So here I am. Miserable, and fully responsible.

In a state of confusion. With no pictures to prove it.


I’ve always been fascinated by Interstates. One lonely stretch of road, connecting Here and There. They lay wherever government planners decided- decisions made with little regard to what small towns they did or didn’t connect to the big cities. And every day you take the Interstate, you get on with a purpose, a route, a story. You take exits at certain intervals, to change roads, to refuel, to end your journey. And although it’s a reflex to peek at fellow drivers during passing (or getting passed), although you’ve developed your stereotype of the driver by his or car, although you may relate to a bumper sticker or a vanity plate, in the end you know no more of their Interstate story than they know of yours. They don’t realize you’re ending an 11 drive back to your true love – they just know they should have left for work 20 min ago.


As it is on the highway, it is in life. You don’t know why I skipped last night blogging and almost forgot tonight any more than I know why you haven’t been reading your WordPress feeds.

Tomorrow, we trek to Stillwater for the third week in a row, not for us or for the sake of going, for once, but for my brother-in-law’s graduation. As we begin our married life, he begins his graduate school career. As he revels in the freedom of summer, we make plans for front porches and rocking chairs and schedule doctors appointments. And frankly, everyone is happy focusing on their own journey.

So good night, all, and be patient on the roads. You don’t know anyone’s story.