Sumpin' Witty

I woke up on my 35th birthday to my 13-year-old dog having a seizure. Not a great way to start what could very well be the mid-point in my life (depending on how much Zumba I do), but one of those moments that reminds you that shit isn't always going to be like this. Everything changes, everything comes to end, and if we're lucky enough to still be breathing, we have a chance to start again. Call it a mid-life crisis (or if I'm lucky a third-life crisis). Call it my lastest fitness obsession since I seemed to have phased out my Salsa Fever that consumed the 34th year of my life. Call it what you want, but I decided to go to Zumba. Now, going to Zumba was something I never, ever in a million years would have thought I would have done. Aside from the fact that dancing in a group setting, with a bunch of overly peepy fitness freaks, would have made me run the other way just a couple of years ago, I had a personal vendetta against Zumba. You see, when my ex of 8 years...

It’s been a year since my heart broke. And it didn’t shatter all at once, like a wine glass crashing on a tile floor, the way I imagined it would.  It crumbled, slowly, over a few months, or maybe longer, it’s hard to tell. It started with a crack that crept its way across, as little bits began to fall away. And as the crack grew and splintered across my heart, the symptoms of a broken heart began to set in.  My insides turned to liquid. My intestines, large and small, my stomach, they just turned to liquid. I couldn’t eat, on account of my insides no longer existing in a solid form. I yo-yoed between thinking I was going to vomit up my digestive system or shit it out, at any moment.  Eating went out the window and so did sleep. Of course I’d be exhausted all day, from crying, from lack of nutrition, but then night would come, but never sleep. It was like I was possessed. The dark thoughts came with the darkness and that little voice inside your h...