I had my first tennis lesson last night—and I loved it! Sure I'm graceless and have less coordination than a stick, but I'm among friends! I did suggest that our class begin a new form of the sport: air tennis. I argued that, especially for newbies, it was so much easier whacking at the air than a bouncy greenish ball.

I bet the instructor is considering the possibilities.

I was chasing my ball in the opening moments, and cried out, "Oooooh! It's a running sport!" I usually stray from contact sports...because I have four limbs and have been armed with the ability to operate only two at any given time. Tennis will be interesting.

I haven't been able to shake my headache or the dizziness all day. I finally got around to desecrating the sacred grounds of Brenda's cubicle this morning, going through her drug-supply-drawer. She advised me yesterday that she had an assortment there...and also that she was re-stocking this weekend and to put my bid in for any requests now.

I got home and opened the medical bill that I specifically avoided opening yesterday...didn't want the downer. Why I thought that headache-imbued Laura was more prepared today is beyond me, but the damage is done.

I received my work benefits PIN in the mail...immediately I logged in to set up my benefits plan. Lessons I've learned: no matter how bereaved you are at a cherished one's passing, do not let others handle the details of your life...particularly your father who signs you up for a health insurance plan with a deductible I would value as a buck or two shy of the worth of my first born. Men don't visit doctors unless a limb is slightly less than attached (a), I'm no man (b), I shouldn't have let a man determine my coverage (c). This is what is commonly referred to as a "stupid move".

And of all the coverages under which I could have been enrolled, it had to be that one when my stomach decided that food was the enemy.

So I'm set up now...and oh so glad that I won't have to donate 90% of my plasma to pay for a wisdom tooth to be removed. While I was at it, I cancelled the other, booger-policy. The headache has been compounded with a hearty bout of nausea, and as I look to the turbulent clouds I wonder if tennis lessons are still on. I hope so. I need to relax.

She's among my score of single aunts who claim their nieces and nephews as their own, use them as their heirs. She set up my IRA several years ago after receiving a surprise health insurance check from her recently deceased husband. She's been investing money in my, my brother's, and my cousins' names (that's right, all four of us). I received a letter from the investment organization handing the accounts—and coincidentally (or not so much) the organization under which she is employed. The outer sleeve seemed to indicate the need for an immediate response.

I opened the letter, desensitized to the "RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!" headlines in red blinking lights by the flood of credit card applications that are only interested in me for the next five days...you know, until they renew the offer next week.

But included in the letter was a self addressed return envelope, stamped too, and a form to change my beneficiary. A little detail that I had forgotten during the graying-out of my marriage.

So I threw Brenda's name and soc on my form, trying not to roll my eyes too belittlingly when she had to look up her social security number, and sealed the enclosed envelope. Now, the life insurance. I requested beneficiary change forms in April when I sent in my premium check. Nothing. I suppose next time I set up life insurance, I should go through a bitter, burned-by-love relative instead of my significant other's good acquaintance. Live and learn.

So, I've found employment within the same company where my aunts have found theirs—well, in decades past. They have vacation this week, and it's an exercise in calm telling myself that they're really not trying to sabotage my efforts to quietly make myself a piece of frigging toast by scrunching my bread at the back of an overfull refrigerator and my yogurt spread under more Tupperware than they should rightfully own (they don't save leftovers). I can't be too upset though...the fullness of the refrigeration unit can be attributed in part to the gathering of Woodchuck some benevolent aunt stocked there.

My aunts have always been my alcoholic beverage providers. When I was in high school, it was wine coolers, wine, and vodka or brandy slush. Then it was Kahlúa® Mudslides and Peach Schnapps...and now, apparently, we are entering the fermented cider segment of my life. Debbie couldn't be more pleased...it's the most beer-like beverage to which I've ever so fancied...she's been atwitter for years that I didn't get Paske genes...or hell, even Kittleson. My alcoholic ancestors gypped me out of losing the braincells necessary to be Kellie Pickler's equal. Bummer, dude.

I didn't get the chance to stop home after work yesterday to enjoy one of them. I've been very worried about Nick who actually felt rotten enough on Monday to go to a doctor. I dearly hope he feels better soon, if for no other reason than to steal a kiss. But this is all neither here nor there.

Yesterday morning, I was stressed, nervous, and as always, my stomach was a mess. I try not to snap when I'm under that level of pressure, but my body language does seem to shout warnings rather strikingly. I rounded the corner with my heels striking against the floor in my locked-knee stalk that my uncle refers to as my German family's Hitler walk. Debbie was there, soft and cuddly in her robe and pajamas and her eyes rounded as she saw me coming and tried to body dive into the refrigerator, crying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...oh God I'm so sorry!" and she seemed near hysterics.

Brenda laughed as though she swallowed a hyena whole and I muttered from the side of my mouth, "Boy, you've got her trained."

She continued to laugh, Brenda and I are of similar temperament, and added, "Here I am just about to smooth her hair and straighten her sweater..." the rest of her statement was lost in the uproarious laughter, and Debbie's eyes went shifty and nervous...poor Debbie. I've felt the power of being Brenda now...it's heady...you shouldn't have let me know that I'm dominant...tsk tsk. Don't you watch the Discovery Channel?

I felt so loved yesterday, in spite of seeing Miles for the first time in seven months.

We met at a Border's coffeeshop in the evening, and I shed my last bit of tears on Nick's deck while he hovered over me with the most heart-melting, empathetic gaze. "I'll be ok, I always am at showtime."

It's just that so many memories have flooded back. So many. The day he left most specifically...the day he left and the day that my mother placed herself between me and my own self destruction. I cry at her absence. I cry that she isn't here now. I cry that she doesn't get to see the conclusion to the life-restoring process that she helped me to begin.

Debbie and Brenda offered to go to Border's with me. Charlie did. Dad did. Nick did. They offered more times than I can count. "No, this is something I have to do alone." I returned to Nick's last night, after spending truncated time with my aunts, who were so dearly concerned. He had goodies of peanut M&M's, coffee ice cream, and a recording of Elliot Yamin singing The National Anthem. I was warmed by the thoughtfulness, and morned that I simply had no appetite.



In less than an hour I'll leave for the courthouse. In less than two hours I'll be a divorcée. In less than a day I'll wake with continuance before me once more. I can give you a countdown to every hope, every desire, and every freedom...but I don't know how I am going to get through right now...I only know that I will. I will wield the strength and acceptance that once inspired such motherly pride...it's all I can do.