I’m a recovering lawyer, but I’m still an advocate.  I’m a writer.  I’m a wife and a mother.  I’m a cook, a skier, a reader of books printed on paper and newspapers printed on newsprint.  I’m more than halfway through my 30,000 days and I’m pretty sure I missed a good chunk of them.  But I’m done walking through days like they’re jello. This blog is about what I do with the rest of the 12,500 or so I still have left.

There was no tragedy.  No near-death experience. No horrible accident, no sudden job loss, no brain tumor or breast cancer.  (I think I’m rational enough to call it all out like that, but I know in that part of us all that is fascinated by fire and water that I’m tempting . . . Who?  What?  Fate? God? The gods?) There was just my 13 year old daughter, getting out of the car on another evening after another trip to the Staples for another last-minute supply run, counting out a million days.  Which, as it turns out, is about 970,000 more days than any human being ever gets.