It was a weird week. Not a bad one. Not really. But weird.
I had a couple of gloomy days. They always scare me. Am I depressed again? Do I need Zoloft again? Am I never going to be happy again?
I had a book rejected. It was an R & R and--okay, I admit it--I thought it would be accepted, or at least more revisions suggested. But it was rejected in the nicest possible way by one of my favorite-ever editors. I wanted to work with her again, but in all honesty, the publisher's going one way and I'm going another. Nobody's wrong, but it made me sad anyway.
D'Ann's dad, the cowboy who made her write about cowboys like no one else can, isn't doing very well. I hated hearing that.
I was happy again. Didn't need the Zoloft.
We had our two youngest grandboys for three days. They wore me right down to a frazzle, but it was so much fun.
I had a birthday, the one the Beatles sang about, and it was fun, too. I still remember thinking life past 60 wouldn't even be worth living. I am so glad, so very endlessly glad that I was so wrong. It may be the downhill side, but there's nothing much more fun than a sled going downhill.
Margie sent us all pretty presents and I got mine on my birthday. I love having friends.
So, yeah, it was weird, but when I went to put in the title to this post, I only got as far as "It was the best of times..." Because it was and it usually is. You learn that by the time you're 64.