I was driving to my office this afternoon to pick up a binder I forgot yesterday. It sucks that I had to think about work on such a pretty, pretty day.

And it was a perfectly glorious day. Sun was shining. Birds singing and all that jazz.

A bit nippy but in a fresh, crisp fall on the cusp of winter sort of way.

Then a Counting Crows song came on the radio. That remake of a Joni Mitchell song ...

And for some strange reason, I started crying.

I mean, full-out, show-stopping, grab- the-Prozac weeping.

I couldn't see the road anymore. So I pulled off onto this little side street until I could collect myself again.

And regain my fine motor skills.

So there I am. Sitting in my car. Cheeks tear stained. Adam Duritz lamenting about a big, yellow taxi.

Wondering what the *hell* happened.

Did I have some post traumatic reaction to public transportation? Maybe in a former life I was hit by a cab.

I mean, I didn't feel sad. Or particulary distraught for any reason. It was as if I became suddenly overwhelmed - and my release valve was triggered.

Presto. Hello waterworks.

When I finally stopped crying, I opened my door and stepped out of my car.

I breathed in really deeply. Really, really deeply. And opened my eyes to look around.

I had to take pause. There was something inside me that needed to get out. And since I chose to ignore it - it upped the anty.

It went medieval on my ass.

Word of advice: Don't ignore your problems. Much like children, the harder you try to not hear them, the louder they scream.

So I grabbed a seat on the curb to do some serious soul-searching. I wasn't going anywhere until I sussed all this out.

I did a mental check:

No pets have died recently. Check.

No close relatives suddenly pushing up daisies. Check.

No suppressed memories unleashed. Check.

Then I realized something. The biggest part of the problem was staring me straight in the face. I was right in the thick of it.

"Look at around you. See this amazing day", I said to myself. "And what are you doing with it? You're going to work."

Why in the hell was I going to work on a Saturday???

I have this sweet, sweet man at home waiting for me. Who wants to watch a movie or make dinner with me ... and I can't. Because I need to finish this report. Or I have to evaluate this program.

Basically what I am saying is I have to do things more important than you.

And *why* do I have to do these things?

Because I have to make someone proud. I don't know exactly who ... but someone.

I have this drive that is really ... almost unhealthy. This push to be better than I anyone ever thought I could be.

Better than I ever thought I could be.

In everything I do, I exhaust myself.

I can feel time ticking at my back ... urging me to go faster and faster. Higher and higher.

Urging me to be the best.

The thing about people who always want to be the best ... they are rarely satisifed. Because, if you look underneath, it's not really about being on top - it's more about not getting trampled on the bottom.

Fear drives me. Fear that if I stop for even a moment, I will miss out. Miss out on love. On happiness. On success. On life.

If I'm not making much sense, don't worry. I'm a crazy woman prone to crazy talk.

But the thing of it is ... all this running, all this pushing, all this drive might get you to the top - but you'll leave everyone who cares about you behind. Eating your dust.

What fun is it to be the best - if you're all alone. What makes success so sweet is having someone to share it with.

I got up off the curb, into my car and headed right back home.

I stopped by the drugstore for a can of Honeyroasted peanuts (Jake's favorite) and a card.

In the card I wrote:

Jake,

I'm sorry I've been so moody lately. I'm sorry that I'm taking my frustrations out on you.

Sometimes I get really tired. I drive myself to be the best I can be, it seems like, all the time. And it feels like the world still doesn't notice me.

I know my time will come one day ... but today I feel exhausted.

None of this is your fault. You always love me no matter if I sink or swim.

When I'm angry at you, I'm actually angry at myself. I'm angry at myself for getting tired. For not pushing myself harder. For not being able to give you more.

But then you'll do something really sweet. And I'll step back and realize that you notice me even if the world doesn't.

And I just have to smile.

I love you,

Your wife

Sometimes, you just gotta let it out, I guess.

Now, go hug someone you love.

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