Not to one thing. But many.
to. every. thing.
I am addicted to a freshly made bed. And the first sleep thereafter.
How it feels when your feet part the sheets like they are slicing open a long-anticipated letter from an old friend.
I am addicted to the way a dogs entire bottom half wags when it’s happy. And how often a dog is happy.
I am addicted to the way the breeze dances through my American flag and catches my eye from the couch. Reminding me I am lucky.
I guess what I should say is that I am addicted to life.
The air outside is my gateway drug. A few deep breaths and I am spinning.
I am addicted to all of the possibilities. And all of the possibilities of possibilities.
I am addicted to baby blue skies filled with meringue clouds.
And, have you guys ever smelled a summer rain? In those first few moments when it makes it’s attempt to cool the sun-baked pavement?
Man. The smell of summer rain is something everybody has to try. Just once.
I am addicted to the feeling I get when my husband comes home from work.
It isn’t tossing/turning butterflies anymore.
It is more like a crackling fire. Obvious but unobtrusive.
Calming and warm. Safe and contained but something in the way it moves that keeps your attention.
I am addicted to mornings that open like a slow dance. Unrushed. Taking their time. Slowly unraveling into something beautiful.
I am addicted to the way sun-kissed skin smells when it is freshly showered. And unveiling the freckles you’ve waited all winter for.
I am addicted to downers. Like Instagram. And how my body looks in the mirror.
And “Why doesn’t it look like those girls on Instagram?”
I am addicted to the way my stomach rolls when I sit.
And when I stand.
I am addicted to how thighs act like they are best.fucking.friends and they never leave each other’s side.
I am addicted to wishing they would hate each other and put some space between them.
I am addicted to applying for jobs.
Then addicted to trying to figure out why I am not good enough for any of them.
And thinking “how can you be so sure I am not the one when you won’t even meet me?”
I am addicted to what people think about me.
And what they don’t think about me.
And all the things I invent that they are thinking about me…probably.
I am addicted to the news.
And to the internet trolls, who hide safely behind their keyboards while pouring gasoline on fires.
I remember freshly made beds.
and puppy dog tails.
and the smell of rain.
I am addicted to life.
And am always afraid my inventory will run short.