X: [instrumental yoga music]

"The reason? The reason I haven't felt like writing is easy to explain, actually. It's quite straightforward, and it makes sense. I just had never actually considered before that real people who I might actually know might be schizophrenic, and suffering from real hallucinations and hearing real voices inside their heads. Because this whole thing - this whole blog, this whole writing experiment - it's just a game to me. It's not real. I don't suffer from those things."

"You suffer from me," moaned the Anxious One.

Nobody said anything. They had been over this so many times already - all old arguments - and they were far more interested in what the Writer had to say.

"Anyway...I had not considered it. It just had not crossed my mind. And when... when... well, when on of my dearest friends' wife started to maybe exhibit traces of something like this, it just completely zapped all my desire to even come close to mocking it." 

"It wouldn't have been mockery, you know."

"Yeah, but it might've." The Writer buried her head in her hands on her lap.

"You've been drinking that one's kool-aid," said the Researcher, pointing at the Anxious One. 

"Hey. Kool-aid is gross. I don't even drink that stuff. It's just for kids with parents who don't care about red-40 making them hyper."

***

"Why do you have all these shirts, anyway?" asked the Researcher to the Mystic. She had just finished an hour long yoga class in the park and was now folding laundry. Her Na-Meow-Ste tank was neatly folded next to a pile of others. For example:

Another tank with a cat in sunglasses in a yoga pose with the caption "Caturanga!"

A faded Three Wolf Moon shirt that she had owned before it was really a thing

A shirt with a Kit Kat bar and the caption "Break me off a piece of that!"

A shirt with about ten cats sitting on stand-up paddle boards doing yoga, one of them saying, "Flow With Me." 

A shirt in German Fraktur stating, "Making Eyes Bleed Since 1515"

"Easy. They're really dorky."

"Huh?" The Researcher was genuinely confused. "What's the... what's the appeal in that?"

"Misdirection."

"Tell me?"

"Sure. It's just this: you guys are always mocking me. Making fun of my attempts at reaching inside myself, trying to focus on the good, breath away the bad."

"That's because it's a bunch of hocus pocus nonsense that isn't based on rational thinking."

"No, it's because you guys are all somewhat insecure, and you don't or can't admit that there are things that I could teach you about the world."

The Researcher didn't really buy it, but was genuinely interested in hearing more. "But what does that have to do with the tees?"

"You always mock me anyway. Why not give you something concrete to laugh about, why not live up to your expectations of me. It hurts a lot less when you're laughing at something that doesn't matter and actually, maybe is a bit funny."

"So... the tees are just a way of getting us to forget about why we actually dislike you?"

The Mystic frowned. "I don't think you actually dislike me."

"Distrust, then." The Researcher waved her hand, as if the two were one and the same.

"There's a pretty big difference, you know."

"Hmm. If you say so." 

"Wasn't there something else that you wanted to talk about?" asked the Mystic. She was getting a little bit irritated. 

"Yes!" The Researcher brightened. "It's been brought to my attention that - that, well, you've been... how do I say this? You've been dreaming."

"We all have dreams."

"Yes, yes, of course, but I mean night dreams."

"Sure. Don't we all?"

"That's just it! I don't think we actually do. I certainly don't. The Writer doesn't. The Philosopher doesn't. The Anxious One only has nightmares, and that's not at all what I'm interested in studying right now."

"Sure, I dream. I had a really great dream last night."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"No."

"Was it too sexual?"

The Mystic laughed. "Not at all. In any way."

The Researcher frowned. "Then - then why won't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't get it."

"What wouldn't I get?"

"You would go about interpreting it the wrong way."

"Oh? You... you interpret these things? How can one interpret the subconscious?"

"It's literally all about feelings. There aren't cold, hard calculations that go into it. I simply replay the dream and think hard about my feelings, and the meaning is just there. It's simple."

"So let me get this straight - after you think about it for a while, the meaning just... it just appears?"

"It's just suddenly apparent."

"How?" The Researcher was genuinely fascinated.

"It just is. That's how it's always been. That's how I receive messages from beyond." 

"What?" The Researcher looked skeptical.

"Look, I have stuff to do. I don't really need you making fun of me about things that are actually important. If you came here to laugh, just do it." She pelted a t-shirt at the Researcher. It had a confused looking cat in a downward facing dog position, except her belly was towards the sky. All the surrounding mats had dogs. The cat's thought bubble read, "Am I missing something?"

The Researcher grinned and was pelted by another t-shirt that said, "THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE FLOW BUSINESS." 

"Fine - fine. You're not going to tell me the dream. You're not going to tell me how the analysis works. But can you at least tell me the conclusion? What does it mean? Why are you so happy?"

"When I've had dreams like this in the past, happy, calm, good dreams about the thing I've been worried about during the day, it has always been so irregular, so outside myself, that I take it to hold a bit more meaning. Once, a long time ago, a dream like this literally protected me from completely giving up on a friend who was being particularly difficult.

These dreams are not really assurances of *exactly* what's to happen. I don't predict anything actually like the scene that played out for me will actually happen, or even with the exact people I was dreaming about. Dreams aren't that literal in meaning (usually). But still, it means I can have good reason to hope that I will get what I'm longing for, and that what God has in store for me really does involve people with whom I can relax and just hang out, and be me - people who actually listen to me, and ask my opinion, and want to know me. That I'm going to get what I'm after.

It was a very, very good dream. Precious to me, even."

The Researcher smiled and did something unexpected. She got up, walked over to the Mystic, and gave her a hug. "I might not understand everything about the way you and your mind work, and I may be predisposed to distrust what I do not understand. But something about your story just make me feel so happy. I want the same things, you know, and my methods and net-casting aren't...well...they just..."

"They don't really work that well."

The Researcher hung her head in shame. "I don't understand it."

The Mystic touched the Researcher's hand gently. "Hey, it's okay to not be perfect yet. You gotta just accept who you are in the Now. It's going to be okay."

"I want to know everything."

"You either will, or you won't, but right now you don't. And that's okay."

"Sounds like a mantra for lazy people." 

The Mystic laughed. "Don't you remember the other day when the Writer sat there at her computer, laughing and laughing and laughing? Her co-author friend had written something about how happy he was with the progress, and how surprisingly fast they had been getting along through all the Czechlish."

"Don't even mention Czechlish," sighed the Researcher. "It has been a major source of frustration to me these past three months."

"Yeah. But anyway, don't you remember how our co-author friend said something like, "I overestimated my laziness."? And the Writer said, "That's literally something that I have never done in my life."" 

"Because it's true. We've never done that. I can't even really quite imagine circumstances under which I might think, let alone utter, those words."

"The point is, yeah, some people would take some sappy mantras the exact wrong way and interpret them to mean complacent, immobile apathy. But you won't. So they mean something different for you. You can internalize them and they can really help you with the kind of self-love that would ultimately increase your productivity and - and - and perhaps be the key to solving this weird How to Make Friends mystery." 

"I thought the problem was more that I only get along with people who share my same super-niche interests."

The Mystic shook her head. "No. The problem is squarely that you don't believe that other people out there exist who might love you as you are. And until you yourself love yourself, you're not going to be able to internalize it as a real possibility."

"So, focus my efforts on self-love?" The Researcher felt really uncomfortable and skeptical.

"In a way. But the First and Greatest Commandment is actually not self-love, you know."

The Researcher smiled. "Sure do know that. I've been studying the New Testament, you know! Matthew 22..."

The Mystic smiled back.

IX : Let's pick up the pace. Let's make the parties longer and the misery shorter and shorter. Let's all go to #### in a fast car and keep it...SMART!

The Anxious One was sleeping. Or maybe she was gone for good?

They always hoped that would be the case, even all these years later.

The Writer was antsy to get to work on other projects. There were many other projects to dive into, so many interesting things to think about. The reader cat was off somewhere, purring contentedly on a pile of open books.

The Tragic Romantic was definitely still there, but she was dozing on her chaise under a copy of an article titled something like, "13 Things You'd Never Believe Actually Work." Nobody moved to wake her. She had a stack of half-written poems scattered on sticky notes around the floor. She would be really irritated to know that I found them and decided to include them here:

Note #1:
Steam of Consciousness

Note #2:
Fishing for Compliments:
Insulting yourself to gain sympathy is
the flirtation tactic of tweenagers

Free refills at the compliment dispenser

ample-ompliments

try to remember the times I've been starving for attention and validation. The times I've felt that, hey I just did something really great, and no one mentions it! A sincere compliment gives me an inner glow. So why would we be reluctant to compliment someone else? Unless it is undeserved or coming from an obnoxious person with an over-inflated ego. Then you can say "gee, I guess you are feeling pretty darn good about yourself."

[It looks like she copied and pasted that straight from some Quora article about it. I wonder how she was going to craft it into a poem.]

Note #3:

Ebonics phonics

Note #4:

Pessimist met Passivette
Going to the fair;
Says Pessimist, "You wanna date?"
Says she, "Don't really care."

[I guess this one will continue with the rest of Simple Simon met a Pie-man.]

Note #5:

"Things to lay on the altar of sacrifice"

Being right
Understanding everything
Being treated with equality and fairness as a woman
Expectations of others
Speaking freely and openly with most people
The delusion that people exist on earth that can understand me
Idealism
Optimism
Earnest desire to help fix the world
Comfort and peace

Note #6:

"How to be nice to Kate when she's really upset about something."

1. Listen carefully to what she says.
2. Ask for more details to prove that you listened, avoiding hints of disbelief.
3. Ask a critical, logical question in a critical, logical way, without immediate judgment.
4. Validate her logic by agreeing with what you can, even if you actually mostly disagree.
5. Keep listening through the emotions, even though they will probably be obnoxious. Keep asking questions.
6. If there's no solution to x, don't offer one.
7. If Kate found a solution to x that makes sense, acknowledge it.
8. If there's another solution to x that Kate did not see, which is very likely, approach it with very gentle, logical statements. Emotions, brute force, and least of all derision will NOT be convincing.
9. The gentlest, softest suggestions can end up having the deepest, longest-lasting impact. These are the words which are most likely to be played over and over again in her head, taken from many angles. Choose them wisely. It can be difficult to strike a balance between honesty and kindness; honesty should always be prioritized first.
10. Give her some time. Logic will win out in the end.

Note #7:

"It's Not About You"

You mean to say
"It's not about you"
That I can't be
Around you?

You mean to say
"It's not about you"
That I can't hear
your voice?

You mean to say
"It's not about you"
That you don't want
To talk to me?

You mean to say
"It's not about you"?
As if it weren't
Your choice?

"It's all about you.
It's only you.
And right now I'm trapped in this
Ominous mood.

And all that I say
Comes out tinted gray.
Your happy sunbeams
just shine in my way.

So, later. Bye.
It's better this way.
Not at all about you.
And have a nice day."

What else could it be?
It's all about me.
It's always, always
All about me.

My selfish, selfish
Selfish self
Can't even grasp
Anything else!

"It's not about you"
without a doubt
These words mean I'm
what it's about.

I've said these words myself.
- all lies.
Lies by mistake.
Lies despised.

Lies I wanted to believe.
"It's not about you,
why I should leave."

It's all about you.
And it's all about me.
There isn't another
Way to be.
The only
Possibility.

It's all about you.
I can't talk to you.
I had a bad day.
I've nothing to say.
I don't want you near
my terrible fear
I'm a terrible friend.
So instead, instead 

instead just
- end.

"It's all about you."
Words more true.
Words that hurt.
Words I hate.
Words I'd rather
You'd not say
Or better
Even contemplate.

So tell me instead
The lies in your head.
"It's not about you."
Alright, I said.

And it's alright.
And it's okay.

These stupid, stupid things we say
Which everyone, everyone knows anyway
Not even the tiniest little bit true.
Not not about me and not not about you.

***

"Can we be done now? There's a pretty long list of things I want to get done, and we haven't even started yet." The Researcher literally had three suitcases full of...are those papers?

"Well, yeah."

"What the...?"

"I've been making plans for what we should be doing."

"Um...okay..."

"There's a LOT of stuff to do! Like, all of our Czech stuff, editing the book - "

"We can't edit anymore today. We've gone as far as is allowed."

"Awww come on."

"No. We don't want to step on our collaborator's toes again. That was - that was really awful. Things are good now. Just follow his lead on this project and we'll be fine."

"But I just want to finish it! It's been two years..."

"Yeah - but there's lots of other projects to pour ourselves into in the mean time." 

If we pour ourselves into projects, if we direct this happy, positive energy into serving the people near us in our world, if we immerse ourselves in reading excellent, interesting sources of wisdom and knowledge, if we smile and laugh and make sure to exercise daily - 

Well, some problems still won't go away, but perhaps they will be easier to deal with?

It's so hard and sad to watch a friend suffering. I wish that there were more that I could do, but there isn't. Every time I feel that way, I just get on my knees and say a prayer. Directing my thoughts and wishes to the only source of power that is big enough to fix the pain in my friend's life. 

I am glad that the Anxious One is not around right now. Perhaps she will stay away? 

How is it possible for me to feel so sad for my friend and yet, it's not - it's actually really nothing like how it gets when the Anxious One is around. It's not out of control. It's not debilitating. It's not as painful. Even though there are no solutions, I'm not devoid of hope, which perhaps doesn't quite make sense. Hmm. 

"Writer, are you ready to go somewhere else?"

Yes, Researcher. Let's go.

VIII : Thousands are sailing to somewhere away

Do not vocalize your dreams.
They are such fragile, tender things.
Don't give them words.
Don't give them names.
Just time
and space
and time
and peace
and time again -
to find
their place.

When dreams bloom into plans, that's when
the spoken naming can begin.

Though safe
to name a thing with wings,
the strength
of words
beats hard on dreams -
those little, helpless paper things.

***

The Anxious One was stunned. The Researcher had found some diagnosis online ("Hey, it was a totally legit, peer-reviewed source! NCBI isn't like, webmd or Women's Health or whatever," said the Researcher) that described everything - all of it - with such acerbic ferocity that she was speechless. 

Maybe in the end, this story wasn't going to be about learning to love the Anxious One, after all. Maybe she really was some sort of defect - a messed up piece of garbage, some kind of genetic flaw inside of the mind. Maybe giving this condition a name was the first step to solving the problem.

The Researcher continued to read all about what we had all suspected: the problem had something to do with hormones. The Anxious One could vividly remember being far away from home, surrounded by classmates, trudging up a dusty hill in the middle of a sweltering hot desert. She remembers complaining loudly and obnoxiously about her aching abdomen - the cramps were almost unbearable. But it was not the physical pain - though that's what she had complained of out loud - that had been the worst part. It was a dark shadow of gloom and despair. Had this cloud been chasing her in circles her entire life? How had this gone unnoticed for so long?

While pregnant, it hadn't been there. 

No - while pregnant it had been more of a constant cloud, gradually getting darker and darker. Taking up all of the space in her mind until at the very end, she had barely had the strength to sit in a chair with an irritatingly mind-numbing crochet project. It had been around that time that she had gone into labor. She had continued to crochet and crochet until the blessed contractions had been unmistakable. She hadn't wanted to go in to the hospital without being absolutely sure. Once with one of her other children, she had been sent home for a "false alarm." The fear of that happening again was worse than the fear of the labor itself - by a lot. When they had arrived at the hospital, signed in, and been sent to triage, the nurse had been fairly casual. Danny had said, "Just so you know, this is our fifth baby." There had been some agonizing moments of waiting. A nurse had eventually stuck her finger up her vagina to check the dilation of her cervix - so horrid, so embarrassing, but also who really cared anymore through the pain of it all? The contracting muscles were now visible on a screen - empirically proven to exist. The entire world could no longer continue to tell her to be patient and wait just a bit longer - there was definitely something happening.

The nurse hadn't told them what was going on. They just sat there in triage, next to some noobie mom with her entire family, excitedly hoping and probably praying that her cervix was at some magic arbitrary number beyond the previously measured arbitrary number - total subjective numbers based only on the nurse's experience and sense of how much space her own fingers take up in that dark, enclosed hole, the entry to this world. Well, an entry, at least. Some babies force themselves to come out the hard way. But that was not likely to happen to Kate this time.

"Why do you think you want to write about this now?" the Philosopher asked gently. She had given up on wearing those obnoxious Roman Togas. She was instead wearing comfortable jeans with an old, faded t-shirt that read, "Screw the Patriarchy!" (that, of course, made several of the others chuckle with its terrible pun-ishness). 

I don't know. It was an important life experience. It mattered to me, regardless of how little it seems to matter to anybody else. Baby #5 might be just another kid - the final member of the basketball team. Final? Maybe? Hopefully? But uncertainly? To me, he is a priceless angel. I hold him every day, sing to him lullabies, touch his sweet little face, chant his little name over and over again. I kiss his cheeks and make him giggle and laugh. I can almost always stop him from crying with just holding him the right way - only twice these past six months have I been powerless, and both times sent me into a hysterical panic. He is an angelic baby. He sleeps long. He is already almost 20 pounds, which is huge! The size of a baby nearly twice his age! He is outgrowing his size 9 month baby clothes. My milk might not qualify to save the lives of other peoples' babies (yet?) but I am certain that it is doing a good job sustaining my baby. 

There is no recognition in this job - and that hurts. I got asked, "What do you do all day? Do you just stay home with the kids?" That hurt. It was an innocent question by a nonnative English speaker. You can't blame them for not navigating something with so many facets and nuances clumsily. It still bristled. I am not ever going to know the feeling of recognition and appreciation for the truly difficult things that I do in my life.

This internal war with myself that happens every month, that is unknowable. Unnoticeable. Nobody can get inside my head to know how painful it can be. And then - like magic - it just completely disappears. The cloud lifts. I feel guilt ridden and ashamed for any of the poisonous arrows I've managed to inflict in my closest friends and family members while in this rage-like state of mind. I have become an excellent shot over the years. Recently, I've decided to avoid all contact with people online while in this state of being. It is too difficult for me to suppress the Anxious One. 

***

The Philosopher brought over a stack of CD's.

"What's with the CD's? You know, we live in a world that's pretty much a few clicks away from any songs." 

"Oh, well, I guess it's just a physical manifestation encapsulating the idea of music. It's something to hold. It hearkens back to earlier times when this was how we consumed music. Sooooo many mixes."

There's ways to control the mind. One is by deep, purposeful immersion into research - of almost any kind. One is by conversing with other people. One is by surrendering the mind completely into a novel. 

Music is the one that we've probably tried the least, but it is surprisingly effective at taming emotions. Perhaps even more so than research - which is more of a distraction technique, anyway. Research can be rewarding and fulfilling to the mind, but it does not ever really seem to touch the heart. The place where the emotions can grow thick and tangled. Research is like running away from it. Music is like...

It's like...

How to put it into words? Hmm.

"We'll have to read up on how other people have described what music does to emotions. There must be whole libraries written on this subject," said the Researcher. Yeah. We could do that. But to what purpose, really.

"You know what's funny about music? We can't even carry on a conversation when anything is playing. That cheesy instrumental music they always insist belongs as the background to any so-called inspirational video? It is always distracting." The Philosopher was grinning. "I guess it was more than distracting, it was supplanting." 

"Yeah, I totally observed this earlier as we got our two mile run in. Listening to music, even horrible music from the 90's, made the laps instantly shorter. It's weird!" The Researcher was itching to know if this phenomenon had some kind of name, or if there were some kind of academic paper to skim about it.

"There's got to be! People write about everything...well...almost everything. Sort of. Okay not really. But yeah. Certainly about this." The Researcher was running to her computer. She...she's a funny person. Really weirdly interested in everything, somehow. Craves it. Maybe she's just an addict. She's nice to have around most of the time. She's pretty much the reason that it's been possible to avoid confronting this for so long, all these years...

"Guys! Listen to this!"

"Several, but not all, studies suggest that among women with premenstrual dysphoric disorder, symptom severity is correlated with levels of

"I thought you were researching music, you dork-face," muttered the Anxious One.
"Present!" shouted Dorky McDorkface. She had been reading the liner notes of all the CD's the Philosopher had brought over and singing the lyrics to her favorite ones out loud, a pretty annoying habit.

"...levels of estradiol, progesterone, or neurosteroids such as allopregnanolone and pregnenolone sulfate (77–79). One of the most compelling findings supporting the role of ovarian hormones in the pathogenesis of premenstrual dysphoric disorder comes from a study by Schmidt et al. (46) demonstrating that women with the disorder are more sensitive to both estradiol and progesterone than comparison subjects. In that study, women with premenstrual dysphoric disorder experienced significant improvement in core mood and physical symptoms with GnRH agonist treatment, only to have a return of negative affect when either estradiol or progesterone was reintroduced in a double-blind, placebo-controlled fashion. Notably, healthy comparison subjects pretreated with the GnRH agonist did not react negatively to administration of estradiol or progesterone."

"Yeah, yeah, we all know that you're really smart. Way to rub it in." The Anxious One rolled he eyes and sunk her head into her lap again.

"It means it really is hormonal, and it really is related to progesterone, just as I hypothesized from those graphs of prevalence of menstrual migraines! HA!"

The Anxious One muttered under her breath, "You're such a hypochondriac. Nobody's going to care. Nobody's going to believe you."

"Don't matter much anyway, do it? Even if they cared, there's not much that can be done. We already know what it's like to have to choose between a happy sex life and a happy life. SSRI's aren't tenable. We just have to bear it, somehow. Maybe it'll go away with menopause?" The Philosopher shrugged. "Here, let's start making some playlists. The music can transport us somewhere."

And it really could! It was strange - like a magician's spell. It probably wasn't special to Kate; this is probably the reason music is a thing that humans do, like - at all, across all cultures. But who cares, if it helps to at least momentarily lift us out of the cloudy fog. Even a weepy, sad song - maybe even especially a weepy, sad song. Powerful magic. 

Impossible to think about anything else. Only rote tasks like laundry and dishes could remain. No talking. No thinking. Impossible to write. 

Balm for the soul.

VII: I am the woman of constant sorrow. I've seen trouble all my days.

The Anxious One was pacing the room. All the others had been gagged and their hands were tied behind them as they sat back to back in a disheveled circle. The Anxious One was furious. She turned sharply and pointed an accusatory finger in the Researcher's face.

"Why do you start all these projects that you could never, never in your wildest possible dreams ever hope to finish? At least half the guilt is squarely your fault!"

She had been shouting things like this to everyone. The only one who was not tied up was me, the Writer. I was commanded to write this miserable scene.

"Guilty - you're all guilty! How much time have we just utterly lost today - dissolved in thin air! Let's review.

Woke up early. Unable to fall back asleep. Immediately started researching something on a mobile device. Wanted to be prepared for later - wanted to solve some genealogical mystery.

But was it a relevant to you mystery? No.

Was it the piece of research that's been sitting on your desk for the past three months? No.

Was it the research query a cousin texted you about yesterday? No.

Was it the research query a friend of a friend asked you about a month ago? No.

Did it have to do with the book we've been cowriting for the past two years? No.

Was it an interesting piece of genetic genealogy that could be shared in the online space you're supposed to admin? No.

Rather, one of several online spaces that has been a dying desert wasteland - abandoned for the new shiny ideas! No!

No! It was a totally low stakes, completely unrelated piece of random research which resulted in almost nothing -

- I can hear you in my brain, Researcher. The two and a half hours of database searches may have resulted in two new connections created somewhere to some branch of the human family on the giant familysearch family tree, but it doesn't justify the massive opportunity cost. The story wasn't good enough to use for the pathetic podcast project. The outcome was mundane and sad. What a waste! UTTERLY FUTILE AND USELESS. You will never contribute to the libraries of human knowledge if you insist on wasting your time this way."

***

Several days later, the Anxious One was alone in a corner. The others had undone their gags (the Anxious One never was that thorough, for all her bravado) and were sitting very far away from her, not speaking with her. But I was still commanded to sit and observe, and record the scene.

She was curled up in a corner, hugging her legs to her chest, weeping softly, and muttering things like, "I'll never get the time..." and "there's nothing I can do!" and "All of my efforts are just a waste."

The Tragic Romantic handed her a small piece of paper with these lines which we had written together, scrawled in messy, free-flowing handwriting. The kind of writing that was personal, the stuff of journals and letters.

Please hold fast to your good heart.
Don't think about the futile part.
You are allowed a moment but
don't forfeit who you truly are.

I shall not join you wallowing
in lonely words of saddest pain.
I know that it is not your fault,
but only you can take the reins.

I am a lamplight on your way,
to mark the path, lest you should stray
along some darker, easier road.
Come, let me all your fears allay.

Come, let me in my constancy
help you to walk with honesty.
Do not forsake your truest self,
the self I know you want to be.

VI: Stressful moments, sweaty people, tired faces, I can see

For Christmas this year, Kate asked for a laptop for the sole purpose of writing.

"Well, if it had really been just for writing, it would have been some kind of chrome book, and that's not what we got. We answered a lot of specs questions that Danny had about how we would use it, and he decided it would be better to get something else, remember?" said the Researcher.

"I hate specs. They are so easy to drown in - analyzing every single stupid little detail that doesn't really matter - trying to compare things that you can't even see! And then, when you finally get to hold the thing in your hand and see it in real life, it's always different. You can read hundreds of reviews and still not know how it will work for you." This was an ongoing argument between the Anxious One and the Researcher. The other selves currently sided with the Anxious One more, albeit a bit grudgingly.

I am going to spell out the logic in a straightforward way:

Kate just had a baby.
Postpartum recovery is difficult.
Daily exercise helps the recovery be less difficult.
Exercise is not very fun.
Writing is always very, very fun.
Running is fast and easy and can be done outside.
The fresh air, sunshine, tiny pathetic strip of forest in the suburban subdivision near Kate's house - all of these things are wonderful to experience daily.
But it is too cold.
Kate caved and bought a gym membership.

Issues with the gym membership:
It is at the local community college gym.
The gym facilities are excellent.
Kate has lots of friends who go there.
It has an indoor track.
It has nice showers.
The gym's price includes childcare for up to two hours every day.
The gym's price also includes Danny's membership, a zero-entry pool that is not freezing, and exercise classes.
The gym parking lot is always crowded.
The front desk people at the gym are morons. But that's kind of expected.
There is also a cafe with the nice smell of coffee.

The gym is attached to the student center of the community college so there is a nice area in the lobby to sit.

The question: 

And write?

Is it it a nice place to write? That is what we are experimenting with right now. How long does it take to get through a workout? How does the lure of writing affect the motivation to get out the door and do a good workout? How can we somehow create a system that helps satisfy these two innate needs: consistent exercise and consistent "consecrated" time for writing? Does this solution make sense?

Holding a physical copy of the first book I wrote was incredible. ("I can't believe you're posting a link. That's blatant self-promotion," scowled the Anxious One. "It's also logical; whoever reads this will need a way to figure out what we are talking about," retorted the Researcher) To be honest, words cannot really describe -

"You moron. Of course words could describe it." said the Anxious One. "I bet now you're going to waste a lot of words attempting to describe it."

"Waste? It was GLORIOUS! We could write volumes about how glorious it was! And I mean literally, volumes!" said the Tragic Romantic.

No, no. We are not going to do that. The point of this time - this system, this plan - the point is to set apart time for us to actually finish some of the more pressing, more important projects.

"Right. But it also makes sense to start with something easy, low-stakes, and somewhat fun. Like a warm-up. I read about it, but I guess I could read more..." mused the Researcher.

The Anxious One scowled. She hated change of any kind. She liked routines. When the routines changed, she always complained. Everybody by now was used to this. It was just a fact. She also had a strong aversion to, for lack of a better word, cheese. She just hated it. The mere idea of a "writing warm up" seemed ludicrous. It's not like they were writing a marathon. And the idea of warming or stretching finger muscles seemed...just totally pathetic.

It remains to be seen if this is going to work. The only way it will is if the warm up time is limited.

It literally expires this very minute, so that's all there is to say about the topic for now.

V: "This is my idea of FUN!"

Everybody within the Mirrors of Self was staring in awe at the computer screen. The expressions ranged from the Anxious One's mildly raised eyebrows to the ecstatic spasms and convulsions of ecstasy of the Tragic Romantic.

The proof copy of their first self-published book would be arriving on Thursday.

"Well. This is...amazing," the Writer said. The Reader-cat purred in perfect, utter contentment and joy.

"You guys are forgetting the one obvious problem with this situation, though," said the Anxious One. "Now that we've written a book, what will be writing about now?"

The Researcher suggested, "Well, we could go back to that novel we started - "

"NO. NO. NO. NO." The Anxious one was adamant.

"There's no shortage of poetry. We could certainly continue to explore that world," said the Tragic Romantic. "My list didn't actually get shorter after we finished the 70th poem for that book."

The book was called The Kates of Wrath. The name had been Dorky McDorkface's idea as a wordplay on the great American novel that everybody loved to hate and had really creepy imagery about breastfeeding on the final page, something which Kate was intensely involved in these days. The cover art was a picture of the giant basket of grapes that all the kids had picked that one summer - they had picked indiscriminately, so about half of the grapes were not yet ripe and were nasty sour things.

The Researcher was not miffed at all by the refusal to go back down the road of that failed novel attempt. "No, this was a great experience you guys! On Thursday we will get to see what the book looks like for real - "

"Hmmph. I am positive that there are typos. And I can't believe that you accidentally clicked the 'publish' button before I had the chance to look things over more carefully! What if somebody buys it and the page numbers aren't correct! What if somebody buys it and there are typos and they leave a bad review and -"

"Now, now, let's remember the reasons why we decided to write that book in the first place!" calmly reminded the Researcher.

"It's because it's a safe outlet for all of these emotions!" suggested the Tragic One helpfully.

"It's because it's a safe outlet for all of my weird words and puns that I like to make up!" added Dorky McDorkface.

"It's because it's a safe way to try to communicate certain ideas to friends and family who otherwise might not have any clue about our inner world, and how we sometimes really struggle with relationships, feelings, motherhood..."

"You're just listing off the sections of the book - Relationships, Feelings, Teenager, Motherhood, Ideas...but like, the most fun one to write was definitely Ideas," said Dorky McDorkface.

"I concur!" said the Philosopher.

The Researcher made a motion with her hands as if to say, calm down. "Yes, yes, of course, that's all true and well. But like, the other reasons had to do with testing. Could we manage to actually get our act together enough to write a book, especially with the looming deadline of Christmas - a slightly socially acceptable time of the year to randomly send friends and family a book of poetry in the mail? Could we handle the chore of editing the manuscript? Could we follow the directions on Kindle Direct Print paperback print - or whatever it's called exactly - could we do it? And then the other logistical questions: how long would it take between submission and getting a book in our hand? What would the quality of the book be like? Do we actually notice different errors in the print version than in the online version? What can we expect for the next book? Can there be a next book?"

"I guess we will have to wait until Thursday to really tell that for sure," said the Philosopher.

"That's...that's in forever!" sighed the Tragic Romantic, and collapsed onto her plush chaise.

"Hmmph. Well, I know of at least a couple book projects in the works, but are any of them good enough for publication, I mean, really? A silly book of poetry is one thing. We are obviously not going to expect to get rich off of this, or even to sell as single copy to someone who isn't our family," said the Anxious One grumpily.

The Researcher smiled and nodded, "Of course you're right - who buys poetry? That was just a fun, quick, low-stakes, high-rewards project. But I think you're quite underestimating the book project potential. I have several books I've been planning, myself..." The Researcher took out her android phone from her jean jacket pocket (she used the Google Keep app to record all kinds of ideas and facts).

As a side note, I want to mention that regular jeans do not have pockets big enough for much - "Hey! I helped you wrote a poem about that!" squealed the Tragic Romantic. "I also helped!" chimed in Dorky McDorkface. It goes like this:

Women’s Pockets


An old receipt.
A ticket stub.
A yellow Lego hand.
Lots and lots of tidbits
on their way to the trashcan.
But nothing that is wider
than a twoish-finger span.
It's obvious that these are the
invention of a man.

Now why I lose my phone so much
I think you'll understand.


* * *


"Yeah! I added that part about the yellow Lego hand!" said Dorky McDorkface. "I thought it was funny!"

The Anxious One rolled her eyes.

"By the way, I have lots of ideas for poetry books we could write!" said the Tragic Romantic. "Let me show you!" She pulled out her notebook. It was some knock-off moleskin thing that was utterly in pieces. A pen was shoved between the pages along with about a dozen random papers with lots of words and sentences jotted down and crossed out. It was a mess.

"I think we should write a practical book about some of the things we have figured out about how to optimize meal planning so that it's healthy, economical, tasty, easy and each meal uses elements that can overlap with the others," said the Maternal One. She got along very well with the Researcher when she was trying to tackle housework and mothering optimization problems. These occasions were generally somewhat limited.

The Believer said, "Well, I think we could write something about our faith that others might find interesting."

The Mystic chimed in, "Oooh, like a book of prayers or something?" The Believer glared at her. "Ummmm...no. That's not a thing. At least, not a thing for us." 

The Fitness Enthusiast was bored with this conversation. She didn't really like writing much. She was also a pretty insignificant voice, though of late she had been hanging out with the Researcher, the Good Friend and me, the Writer. Because the weather had turned so nastily cold, Kate could no longer run outside, so she had bought a gym membership. Both the Mystic and the Fitness Enthusiast had insisted that physical exercise be a priority for Kate, who had to deal with the world outside of the mirrors of self and which included a postpartum body with 50 pounds to lose ("Ughhhh why do we have to put that number in writing?" groaned the Anxious One). 

It turned out that the Good Friend especially enjoyed these trips to the gym, since it was an opportunity to spend time with multiple good friends. It was actually worth the hassle of packing and unpacking children, driving across town ("And past at least ten other gyms!" sighed the Philosopher. "Isn't that...well...strange?"), and shrinking the available time in the day for other things. "Well, of course," said the Researcher. "We can get a lot of Czech audiobook listening in on the car rides, and plus running gives us a chance to listen to the audio from the flashcard app!" "I was actually thinking that I like that there's a bit of peer pressure from a friend to get there at a certain time, and that there's dedicated time while working out to text with other friends, actually," said the Good Friend.

"Do you have any ideas for a book?" the Researcher asked her, suddenly curious.

"Oh...I dunno yet. I'd have to think about that one." 

"I have LOTS of ideas for good books!" said the Philosopher. "Remember how Kate's friend suggested that there should be a book of Kate's Thoughts? We could just gather the 'best of' Facebook posts and reformat them as a book!" 

The Anxious One groaned. "That is literally the dumbest idea of all time."

Dorky McDorkface said, "Oh! I have an idea! You know how in the Swan Princess, Rogers says that Prince Derek should write a book called, 'How to Offend Women in Five Syllables or Less'? Well...what if we wrote that book!"

The Anxious One blinked. "Mmmkay. Well. I stand corrected."

I, the Writer, also have lots of ideas for books. But most of them are for tweaking things which I have already written. I don't have a strong opinion about what writing project we work on (the Researcher definitely does!), just so long as we are writing. But if we ever do get in a slump, we could repackage our blog about living in Jordan, for example, as a real book.

"And an ebook, too," reminded the Researcher. "We need to explore that world of things, too."

To be honest, I think that most everyone within the Mirrors of Self has their own writing projects which they dream about. But maybe that's because I am not really capable of imagining an existence outside of that paradigm. I guess the Sexy One and the Fitness Enthusiast might be excluded...

"I wonder what kind of books they would write about, if they were forced to?" pondered the Philosopher.

"Do NOT write down any theories about the Sexy One, please!" snapped the Anxious One.

I guess there are a good dozen writing projects somewhere in the works right now. It does not really matter which one we are writing about specifically here, only that there is some kind of outlet for it. 

"I guess the real point of this blog is for a way to explore the awful journey of postpartum recovery," shrugged the Researcher. Everyone's face fell a little bit. Remembering this was A Thing At All For Kate was always pretty crappy. 

All of us work our hardest to contribute in our own way to make Kate sane, happy, healthy, productive, interested and good. The forces beyond anyone's control sometimes prevent those things from being a reality. There had recently been too many episodes of shaky trembling of the hands and sometimes entire body, dizziness, blackness where she should have been able to see, horrific nightmares, unstoppable migraines and even full out panic attacks about literally nothing. It was obviously not coming from the Mirrors of Self, but some hardware (aka body) malfunction. Maybe some brain chemistry issue having to do with hormones. That was the most likely guess, after all.

What little I can contribute is to write both about the journey towards recovery, and the world within that still exists though it's sometimes so hard to see from the outside. It is a fun world to explore. Perhaps even useful?

The Reader purred again, this time as if in agreement. Somehow, the Reader's idea of 'usefulness' seems less selfish. The writing which she reads is most often something interesting - and therefore useful - to her. Perhaps our writing will be useful to someone else, as well.

IV: "Let it go, let it go - can't write this thing anymore...let it go, na jedno, turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they're goin' to say, let the storm rage on...new goals never bothered me anyway."

The Anxious One is currently livid with the Researcher. Here I (the Writer) will record both sides' arguments without bothering to intersperse it as dialogue. They have pretty much repeated themselves steadily, nonstop, for the past week or so. It will be much more coherent ("And efficient!" piped in the Researcher) to present them this way:

The Anxious One:
"This is a really, really stupid plan. As if we don't have enough projects to do already. As if this project is among any that are actually worth doing. And don't we always tend to do this exact same thing - make a big, fat list of all kinds of interesting, worthwhile projects, and because the important ones are also usually the hardest, we just put them off and settle for the easiest ones. Kind of like some kind of debt-snowball, except instead of with money, with future time and future effort. Why should we settle? We always claim to want to do great things - why not go after the great things? Is it just some stupid self-defeating way of proving our worthlessness? This project of writing a novel about some fantasy world - but trying to pull it off as a realistic world - it's just...we don't have enough information - I will concede with you on that point - but the fact is, there is a massive amount of opportunity cost involved in acquiring the requisite information. Anyway, we all know that the real project, the one that is actually fun, engaging, interesting - somewhat worthwhile - is this one, the meta novel - the novel about writing a novel. This Mirrors of Self blog, which is meant to show some kind of glimpse inside our head, to give some kind of respite - to find a place to throw words that won't be such a terrible burden for people we actually care about. Does it matter what we write about? I guess it sort of does - but like, why does this project have to be about a dreadful, awful, pathetic book that nobody is going to want to actually read? One that we can't even finish, especially because we can barely start it! What about the raciness of the first chapter, anyway? It didn't work. Like, at all. I know you're going to argue that it's really necessary to grab the reader in the beginning - but it just totally failed. I mean, it made your sister laugh. It wasn't supposed to make anybody laugh. We really should just give up. No, no - this is not a coup - I know that you think all that I want to do is squash everybody into submissive fear and misery, but I actually am capable of reason, too. I know that Kate isn't happy when I'm behind the steering wheel - I know that you'd all be better off without me, just as I know that no matter what we may try, I'm pretty much part of the whole package deal - I know that most of my suggestions are terrible, crappy, negative, and not worth paying the slightest attention to - but the fact is, that in this case, I happen to actually be right. If I focus all of my efforts on imagining what is best for Kate, which I will admit, is difficult for me to do - I can see that this project is CATEGORICALLY STUPID. It will take too much energy - out of me, especially, yes, but really, out of YOU, Ms. Researcher! And that's to do it right; if you do your research wrong you'll be miserable. I guess I would be, too. Maybe the others wouldn't care so much - the Writer can just word-vomit her way to happiness (I had to include that - but for the record, it's not true!), the Philosopher doesn't care so long as there's a current rant going on - and the others are pretty weak and submissive most of the time (I also had to include that; also not true). But you already know how merciless a taskmaster you are and how negative and whiny I am when you're not happy. If we write a piece of crap novel, I am going to be sent into overdrive, and that will be bad for Kate's mental health. Isn't the entire point of this project is to somehow get her out of her self - somehow to get her into some kind of distracting project that results in what we have, for some unfathomable reason, determined to be the Ultimate Measure of Virtue - the writing of a physical book that Kate can someday hold in her hands and share with the world? If that's the point, if that's the honest point, then we really need to rethink the entire plan!"

The Researcher:
"This is a logical plan. We have to find something to do with all this extra energy, something that has absolutely nothing to do with any of the other projects on the table makes logical sense for a safe place to escape. There is literally no world (no plausible world) more different - more remotely distant - than post-Plague Medieval Europe, within the psyche of a rags-to-riches widowed virgin girl. I know it is bothering you that there is no way to avoid the research aspect of this novel, and am sorry for your sake that I am this way, but the truth of the matter is that if we are going to write anything even remotely resembling historical fiction, it's going to necessarily involve some amount of research. It would be an enormous failure to write about the medieval world if we didn't even at least try know about it. And the devil is in the details - of course we aren't going to be perfect, but we can at least try to come to some sort of approximation of how things might have plausibly been. Perhaps we can disprove that stupid chauvinistic theory about women of the past being complete and utter doormats by exploring the power they did have. I am positive that our efforts to read about, learn about, study, and place ourselves in that world of the past will result in a much bigger payout than you seem to think. It could actually be a pretty solid novel, in the end, if done right. Kate spent a lot of time talking about it with Danny - several really fun evenings planning out and plotting out the entire novel, with all of its myriad plot twists. I really think this could be something, but it means we have to do it right. I have done lots of research on writing methods, the Reader and I have read all kinds of interesting theories about writing novels (among other kinds of writing) - I know we can do this. If we would just stick to the schedule, to the plan, then what could go wrong! It makes sense. It will work, but we just have to do it my way. Everybody else is on board. Let's do it."

The Anxious One's Rebuttal:
"Look. Everybody else is not on board, they just really don't want to hurt your feelings. Let's take a poll from the ones who are here."

The Researcher asked, "What's the question, exactly?"

"Assuming we are going to continue this ridiculous meta-novel, should it or should it not be about the current work in progress? Yes : continue as planned, No : find a new project."

The Writer: As long as we don't throw away what we've written, and as long as we continue to write, then I do not care. Abstain.

The Reader: [instantly replayed an image of Kate curled up by the fire under a blanket with a neon yellow highlighter, reading about Statistics in Corpus Linguistics.]. As the Writer, I interpret that to be a No. Since the Reader-cat is purring, it seems my guess was correct.

The Philosopher: "What we have here is a problem of prioritization. How we prioritize our projects wholly depends on why we value certain things more than others. Assuming we are out for the Greater Good of Kate herself, the collective whole including the part that involves living in a physical world, I think we should be looking for something that is more of a high-rewards, low-stakes project. The rewards will probably be measured in recognition - the more instantaneous, the better. I guess the stakes would be measured in how much additional time has to be spend researching. So, basically, no."

The Mystic: "I agree with the Philosopher this time. Less time at the computer is probably better for our health anyway. No."

Dorky McDorkface: "But! Medieval Europe! It's like, THE COOLEST THING! YES!"

The Student: "I want to focus more on Czech. And if not Czech, than corpus linguistics. And if not corpus linguistics, than something else. No."

The Teacher: "Hmm? I get a vote? I am pretty neutral. Abstain."

The Believer: "In Stake Conference last weekend there was a talk that literally warned us against closing up inside a shell of ourselves, ignoring the real world and the people around us who really need help. They talked about how we would be much happier if we avoided these things: pride, contention, fear, distraction. I am sure that this project falls under 'distraction.' We should give it up entirely and devote all of our free time to serving others. No."

The Maternal One: "Well, it'd be a good example of sticking to one's goals and pursuing a fun, academic pursuit. Those are valuable for our children to see. But I guess they wouldn't really see it much. I dunno. I think we could change the project slightly to make it be more in line with my goals. No."

The Sexy One: [Her chair was empty. While she is definitely alive and well, she doesn't hang out with us very often. When she does, she doesn't have a whole lot to say - at least, that is worth repeating. Abstain]

The Good Friend: "I have no strong opinions about this. Can I vote - neutral?" "You have to pick one or abstain," said the Researcher. "I guess...then I abstain?"

The Tragic Romantic: "GUYS! I know what project we can do next!"

"You have to vote first!" said the Anxious One. The Researcher scowled. "Actually, she doesn't. I've been outnumbered. Our novel about medieval Europe is out." 

I, the Writer, will just put it somewhere in the writing folder with all those other future writing projects. 

"Don't you want to know what it is?!" the Tragic Romantic squealed like an adolescent teenage girl. "Guys! GUYS! It's...it's..."

"Don't come right out and just say it," said the Anxious One sarcastically, rolling her eyes. Everybody could tell that she was actually in quite a good mood. It was difficult for her to win arguments with the Researcher. Meanwhile, the Researcher was looking a little bit sullen. It wouldn't last long, especially not with a new project.

"Poetry!" 

Everybody's ears perked up. Both the Researcher and the Anxious One groaned in unison.

"Well. I guess that is a perfect example of a low-stakes, high-rewards project!" said the Philosopher.

"I'll be relegated to the role of looking up words in a Thesaurus and a Rhyming Dictionary. That's...that's really...nice." The Researcher was not happy at all about this. Not enough meat in this project, perhaps.

"It's embarrassingly stupid, there is no value in poems, and who's gonna wanna read any of it? Nobody!" the Anxious One was scowling.

"Hey, come now. You can't use that as an excuse against both projects," I, the Writer, said. "I mean, nobody is going to read what we write anyway." 

The Good Friend said, "You guys have such little faith in your siblings and friends. Haven't you paid attention, like, at all to how much they like to read what you write? Sarah will read and illustrate your poems."

The Tragic Romantic was pacing back and forth. She was really excited now. "Guys! I made a list over the weekend about things we could write poems about!" 

The Good Friend said, "This would be an excellent project for you and your sister, you know. Give you something interesting to talk about that isn't...too...well..."

"...connected to the ongoing tragedy of daily life?" said the Tragic Romantic.

The Good Friend shrugged. "Something like that." 

The Researcher said, "You know, this isn't half a bad idea. I am pretty sure we could do this, and do it well. You pretty much are always scribbling ideas in your piles of notebooks, Tragic Romantic, and if we combine it with a little bit of thought-out craft..."

"It must rhyme. That's my only condition. Craft matters," said the Philosopher.

"We already have stacks and stacks of original poetry written from when we were a lot younger, you know," said the Writer. 

"Here are some of my ideas for a poetry anthology we could call 'Kate's Wrath'" 

"OOOH! It could be the Kates of Wrath! You know...like...the Grapes...of Wrath!" said Dorky McDorkface. Not very many of them listened to her (not that they ever did); instead they started thinking about how a Poetry Anthology would change things within the Mirrors of Self. 

Most of them were extremely satisfied with the new plan.

* * *

1. I don't know how to play the organ but was asked to do so anyway in church
2. They arranged the class so I couldn't teach it, but was expected to
3. The nasty, mean girls who didn't come to my birthday party when I was 12
4. My role, i.e. Weltschmerz
5. Being ghosted
6. Feelings of not being included in my family
7. Crafting vs. basketball
8. The Boring Bookclub
9. Ode to Laundry
10. When's it my turn?
11. I hate the city
12. Breasts suck ("hahaha that could have some really great wordplay!")
13. On buying a bra in America
14. Lingerie is...very silly ("Okay, let's get off of this theme here RIGHT NOW," said the Anxiou One)
15. Being a "Good girl"
16. I can't sleep
17. The guy I like is gay
18. NCMO
19. My husband is insensitive
20. Terseness
21. Editing a book
22. I'm never going to write a book
23. The Syrian war
24. Blog templates ("That is really, really insenstive juxtoposition between 23 and 24, you know." "I can't help being so flighty," said the Tragic Romantic)
25. My friends live over the sea
26. Geographically challenged friendships
27. Shared interests and distance and the relationship between the two
28. My husband makes fun of me constantly
29. The diaper pail in the mother's nursing lounge
30. Never getting emails back
31. Waiting for letters
32. The Greatest Showman
33. Jeremy
34. Sarah shoving my words in my face, making me eat them
35. Skipping a grade
36. Husband's magic computer touch, it's only broken when you're not here to fix it
37. Grouchiness about my calling
38. My invisible polygamous ancestors
39. Jealous of Yvette
40. "I'm sorry I have a y chromosome"
41. Postpartum body
42. Anxiety
43. Nobody will join my hypothetical book club
44. Planning mutual
45. Feedback
46. Computer Cave
47. Reverse iron curtain
48. Cultural appropriation
49. Facebook ("There could me a great many poems written about that one!")
50. Hatred faded, futility
51. standing too closely
52. Gamifying interpersonal relationships with Bingo Boards ("What's wrong with that?" asked Dorky McDorkface)
53. That cat image that really bothered me a lot
54. Lack of craft in art
55. Lack of art in craft
56. I pissed off the guided painter teacher
57. I painted the door when I was 16 as an act of non-violent protest.
58. Overwhelmed by my enthusiasm
59. My talents are a threat
60. How much money does your wife make, what does your wife "do"
61. Weak macho men
62. Feeling self centered
63. Birthdays are terrible
64. Worrying about my in-laws liking me
65. I gave birth to a baby and nobody even cared
66. Corpus linguistics to solve interpersonal relationships
67. Oh! You're not just a creation inside my head! What a relief!
68. Obscure interests
69. Paint me with my own #%$@ shoulders
70. I've never been to your work, my love
71. Remote control that never works
72. Are you mad at me
73. James Chippelo the Third
74. Unsourced drivel
75. Cheated on a test and I didn't need to
76. Crazy
77. Looking for something; can't find it
78. Ennui
79. Feeling like a slave to entropy
80. Single use plastic
81. I have to go to sleep
82. I have to wake up
83. I can't go to sleep
84. Misunderstood
85. Humiliation
86. When my husband feels helpless to help me

87. Visiting teacher insulting me
88. Feeding the baby
89. I have to go to a store. UGH
90. Missed calls
91. Unreplied to emails
92. Pity
93. Pity Friends
94. Psalms
95. The terrible toll of pregnancy
96. Losing all my interests
97. Stupid comments in Stake Conference
98. Scriptures were all written by men and how is that fair
99. My husband thinks my concerns are petty ("I guess the readers should know that list was compiled by both Kate and Danny on a very long car ride recently, and that this one was mostly his idea of a joke.)
100. Parents who don't listen
101. Self defeating secrets
102. Shame for my verboseness
103. Overdrafting occassionally
104. Very unlikely friendships
105. Invisible barriers
106. Backseat driving
107. Sisters don't ask my advice
108. Medicine that makes you sicker rather than better
109. Trump 2020 ("Oooh some kind of fun wordplay with hindsight being 20/20!")
110. I sometimes am cruel to sister missionaries because I ask them things they couldn't possibly know about the historical sites at which they always give tours
111. Shaving legs is stupid
112. My high heels always aerate the lawn

"I've thought of a bunch more since then, too!" said the Tragic Romantic.

"Too bad, we have to go get the kids a snack right now," said the Maternal One.