Waving Not Drowning

In the pit of her stomach it sits, like a half baked potato, starchy and raw, undigested, heavy. Today's the day, she can feel it. A big ol' ball of anxiety has made her digestive tract it's home which can only mean one thing. Something bad is coming. Or something good. She can't differentiate anymore, all she knows is change is a comin'. Her life is like a bad country song, cheatin and lyin and boots a knockin with bad boys and pickup trucks with gun racks and bourbon mash and whiskey sours. From eastern seaboard Ivy League to middle of America; small town, red neck, Christian small c Conservative, lost somewhere between the Blue Mountains and Pensacola. After three days of riding, winding through $29 Dutch Inns, skirting hurricanes in the Carolinas, she turns her phone back on and waits. The apple appears, the circle spins, then she enters her passcode. Searching for a signal. She's in. Roaming for sure, eating up data she can 't begin to fathom how she...

It's been one of those weeks. Lindsay's been under deadline stress hell and Erik, well, Erik's just been under. More than usual. The 45 year old bottle of scotch he brought back from the working slash golf weekend is three quarters spent and their present plans for house hunting have fallen by the wayside. Things have been coming to a head for months now and just when Lindsay thinks she's reached the precipice, a subtle shift happens, so slight it barely registers yet somehow they manage to navigate themselves back onto the path. What path remains to be seen. That's the question, this gnawing obsession of a need for direction. It is slowly killing them, insidiously, from their insides out. Lindsay's been skipping periods, stress eating. A patch of hair has fallen out from behind her left ear. Alopecia areata her doctor says, possibly a stress related disorder, or maybe due to low iron or actually pulling her hair out, which Lindsay may be doing, unconsciously. S...