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When I leave my house in the morning, I usually take one last peek at myself in the mirror by the door to make sure that I haven’t left a velcro roller in (I have, twice), that there’s no toothpaste around my mouth (because foaming at the mouth is something people might not want you to do on transit) or that I haven’t neglected to put on clothing (because, you know, I get distracted.)

Sometimes that glance makes me cringe, because I notice some random, wiry gray hair sticking up from my head like a flag on the moon, or because my eyes look puffed out like Large Marge from the Pee Wee movie.

I always walk away, though, because what can you do? That’s how I look. Put on some music, and let’s go.

That cursory check is just about equal to the amount of time I’ve spent walking through my own head lately.

I pop in to make sure nothing has blown up or caught on fire, and then I head out again, secure in the knowledge things will hold for one more day, or one more week, or however long it takes me to notice blood running out one ear from the sheer pressure of thoughts piling up.

Now, you might laugh when I say that, given the reality that I am both a writer and a blogger. This must mean I have cornered the market on navel gazing and self-reflection and BLAH BLAH BLAH THE VOICE OF MY HEART. And you are welcome to. I know all this is madness on some level.

But I’m awfully good at wading around in my own head and splashing enough that you might think I’ve gone deeper.

“She’s soaked. She must have gone for a swim.”

Nope. Shallow end.

It’s easier that way.

Then again, completely not.

So I dove in just now and looked a little harder in the mirror (and any other metaphors I could possibly include to indicate I was paying attention to my insides for a sec.)

You know what?

It’s a bit rough in there.

I feel like I’ve been passive about a lot of things, selfish about a lot of things, ignorant about a lot of things, confused about a lot of things, wrong about a lot of things, and pessimistic about a lot of things.

Not the positive, jolly, Love Listing girl who comes back grinning like an inflatable clown punching bag, no sir.

Just weary. And a bit lame.

I could chalk it up to being sick, and the fact that I needed to stay on the surface to keep going. Because that lasted a hell of a long time, and isn’t over yet. But that’s no great excuse. All I had was pneumonia, not the Black Plague.

I could chalk it up to being busy, but eh. Busy is busy. I’m going to be busier someday, so I better learn to be a human being through it now.

But regardless of the why, I’ve been silent here, mostly.

Because this is a mirror.

And I was running by.

If I don’t like what I see, though, I need to DO something, not just walk away.

That doesn’t mean I want to stand there and stare into the core of my soul for hours. That’s not helpful to anyone. That doesn’t make life go forward. That doesn’t make me a better person.

It just makes me a lameass who is abundantly versed in my own lameassedness.

No, I’d rather be a lameass who looks long enough to see why, and then stops. And learns. And evolves. And gets on with it.

It’s a seconds-longer action, but it makes all the difference.

So I’ll try.