I know it's not all about me, but he was just seven years older than I am. So that pesky mortality thing has been on my mind. Truth be told, though, it doesn't seem real. When my GF called to tell me the terrible news, I headed over to her house. I picked up wine on the way. We drank a toast to him. Several, in fact. We sat on the sofa and she cried. We talked about silly things we'd done. I called two of my friends who'd known him through me. We watched the very funny video she'd made one night when we made dinner at her house. She was chasing me around like a paparazzo. I was trying to avoid being captured on her iPad because I was wearing my workout clothes and my hair was in pigtails and I didn't have on any lipstick. And I didn't trust her not to post it on YouTube. Believe me, I'd hate for my butt in yoga pants to be broadcast on the World Wide Web. Around that time, her guy walked in and joined the fun. What a sweet memory.
She cried and cried until her eyes were almost swollen shut and finally went to bed. I fell asleep on her sofa. I have a high empathy quotient, so I've been pretty broken hearted for her.
Ok, that covers death. Now for taxes. Ugh. I have got to finish my return, come hell or high water, by March 1st, because I have to prepare the dreaded FAFSA thang so Kiddo can get more scholarship/grant money. It's worse than the tax return. Being self-employed makes my stuff really complicated. It wouldn't be so bad if I were remotely organized, but unfortunately, that hasn't happened, in spite of the time I've spent on FlyLady. And here I sit, blogging about not wanting to do my tax return. Actually, I've worked on it a good bit this weekend, and I'm just taking a little break. I've refrained from Words With Friends and haven't read the paper yet (but I did do the crossword puzzle.)
Soooo, I think I'll get back to it. I'll feel much better when I'm done. And it's never as bad as it seems.
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