I’ve spent the last two weeks not really doing anything but hanging out with my family.
I haven’t been working out or responding to e-mails or talking on the phone; I’ve barely been blogging and I’ve taken a few half days off of work.
I figured I have two weeks with them, so I better not waste that time.
And two weeks is long enough to be able to relax and enjoy and not think about how short two weeks really is in the grand scheme of things.
But last night, after dinner and gelato and driving around Houston to look at the pretty mansions as the sun was going down with Eric, my mom, and Preston, I got that anxious feeling I always get right before it’s time to say good-bye.
I hate when I’m happy and then my gut starting nagging me. It gets all, “Why are you having so much fucking fun? In a very short period of time, life is going to return to normal, which means someone you love will be far away. You really should spend this time playing sad music and acting emo.”
I told my gut to STFU and went about enjoying my evening.
But this morning, I was starting to think my gut was right after I took my mom and Preston to the airport. I refused to put on emo music and I tried not to think about it too much, but it made me really sad.
Sigh. I love everything about living in Houston and my life and where it’s going, except that every day I feel like I’m a million miles from almost everyone.