Thursday was the last football practice of the year.
I don't like being selfish. Everyone knows I love Prosser football, and it would have been awesome to see the Mustangs go all the way to the King Bowl. I would have been in the Tacoma Dome cheering louder than anyone.
Selfishly, I don't mind having Friday nights free.
Selfishly, I don't mind when my husband rides into the driveway on his bike at four o'clock instead of seven or eight or ten.
Selfishly, I don't mind when he's there every night when the kids go to bed.
Selfishly, I don't mind when he tells me, "Maybe we should start going on a date once a week." (Ooh la la!)
Selfishly, I'm glad to get my husband back.
It's sad because this is the first time in twenty-two years the Mustangs haven't been in the playoffs. I'm sad for my brother-in-law who's in his first year of head coaching here.
But I don't feel sad for myself and I don't feel sad for my kids. Abruptly I find I can breathe again without gasping, float on my back with my toes pointing at the sky, stare at the blue overhead expanse without panicking, without feeling like I'm sinking into Life too deep, pulled too many ways by too many small people with Agendas -- and transition issues.
The Mustangs can go to the playoffs next year, when we're adjusted, settled, and everyone's a year older.
That's how I feel. Selfishly.