Amy Writes

Every morning I wake up, pledging that today will be different. Today I will take deep breaths. I will count to ten. I will remain personally disengaged. I will be calm, consistent, gentle but firm. Today things will turn around. Today we will work together. Tonight, I will not be so exhausted and ready to cry. Then I step out of the bedroom. And it begins. When I worked at the Happiest Place on Earth, as most places of employment do, we had a breakroom. In the breakroom you could be whoever you wanted. You could eat, slouch, swear, remove annoying costume accessories, grow facial hair if you had time, vent about the crazy guest who just asked when the rain was going to stop or just frown if you needed to get a frown out of your system...the breakroom was a place of rest. Just one door separated us from "the stage," and once we walked through that door, we had to be on , all the time. Every morning, my bedroom door reminds me of that stage door. Once I walk through it

It was 1991. Wait, how is that possible? I was just a kid. You were just past being a kid. When Harry Met Sally had been looping on the CD player in Mom's Caravan for months and we were addicted. I'd been playing the piano for about 10 years by then and fancied myself an expert on amazing. I knew amazing, and you, Harry, were pretty amazing. I'd seen Memphis Belle about a dozen times, too. It was a running joke in the family - someone was always bringing home the videotape from Blockbuster. Ha ha ha... hurryupandpushplay! Once, thinking I could do what you do, Mom called "your people" to see if sheet music existed for your version of Winter Wonderland. We were told by a very nice gentleman that "No, Harry doesn't do sheet music," and I think he sent us some type of songbook instead. I cannot do what you do. It was one of the most spontaneous things I'd seen my mom do - the paper said you were performing that night and she decided we would

Today is one of those days where I just walk around my house and look at stuff. I might actually pick something up and move it to another location, or I might straighten a pile of papers into a neat little stack, or I might kick some shoes out of a main thoroughfare. Or I might not. If I don't, it's because I am physically unable to make progress in any direction. I hate these days. One of the things I value most on a daily basis is my own productivity. When I effectively pair it with its sister value, efficiency, I am in my own little self- righteous -sufficient utopia. On the days when the opposite is occurring, I am miserable. Seriously, I feel like a flat-out, 100%, crawl-back-into-bed-and-hide-under-the-covers failure. It's a totally fallacious sentiment, I know. That's one of the reasons why I find these days so frustrating. Regardless of how many times I tell myself that it's okay to take a day off, or to not be at the top of my game all the time...no