Kicking and Screaming

For those of you assuming I drag my poor husband, kicking and screaming, to the dance studio, think again. He likes to dance as much as I do. In fact, our very first date back in 1982 was an eight-hour dance marathon. Apparently he fancied himself a pretty good dancer back then and figured he could impress me with his snappy moves. He was right. We went all the way that night… as in WE DANCED THE ENTIRE 8 HOURS WITHOUT

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Chasing My Own Mirror Ball

After making a career of finding whatever job paid the most while supporting my husband through medical school, I gave birth to our first son. Seven cities, three states, a second son, too many tropical fish to count and a dog later, I found myself, on one very dismal February morning, standing catatonically on the back porch of my suburban Atlanta home. A gentle breeze stirred the air and the sound of a fluttering plastic grocery bag, stuck in the branches of a leafless dogwood, caught my attention. That's me, I suddenly thought, a hollow, empty version of the me I used to be...

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