That's how I would characterize November and all this striving is exhausting. This trying and falling short has made me nervous too, and insecure, and there's nothing I like less than when I'm dwelling on whether or not I'm measuring up.
But I'm still posting every day and writing - although I've decided that 30 days just isn't enough for me to crank out a novel. I hate admitting that aloud, but the twists and turns writing this month have moved my story along, and for that I am grateful.
I am also hosting Thanksgiving this year, and there isn't enough wine in the world to ward off my Grandma's criticisms. Knowing she will be hovering, asking why I did this and why I didn't do that doesn't exactly relax my mind or build my confidence, but in the end, it is dinner and there will be food and fun and family. And if I'm honest, that's really all I care about: Down time with my husband for four days, lots of food and remembering just how fortunate we really are, even if I 'do it wrong' by a certain matriarch's standards.
(There will be no nasty Jell-o salads offered up. Oh the scorn! Oh the drama to be heaped upon my head.)
I had mentioned to Greg some weeks ago that we should also host a big turkey trot, down by the lake. We would gather at the shore and get our blood pumping before the big feast.
After clarifying that I wanted to go for an early morning hike in November, most likely in the rain, when we could sleep in like sane people, he said he would support ME doing anything I like that morning, as long as he could stay in bed and watch football.
I can't say that I blame him. He's always up early, traveling, running on fumes.
But like most things I took on this month, I'm itching to give it a try even if it's just the kids and I and a lonely lake.
Sometimes you have to keep moving.