And Then the Doorbell Rang

I knew it was going to happen soon. Somehow, in my imagination, it happened differently.

The UPS guy was extra hot in the brown shorts uniform. I was in a cute little outfit, hair and makeup ON FLEEK. The doorbell would ring. I would jump up and down and clap and laugh. UPS guy would valiantly rip the box open for me, light would pour from the box, clouds would part, sunlight and rainbows would appear and trumpets would sound.

YOUR BOOKS ARE HERE!

12189018_1498442030452620_5079921265439391329_nWell, the boxes arrived. The doorbell rang.

What I didn’t foresee is that this would happen as I wallowed in my bed, day sleeping after a night shift, not wanting to get up but knowing I should because I didn’t have work that night and if I slept all day, I’d be up all night.

My fantasy didn’t include me stumbling down the hall, pulling on yoga pants and a paint splattered tank top. Nor the fumes and dust as the UPS truck sped away. Nor my shrieking at Molly to GET BACK IN THE HOUSE!

12004063_1486629824967174_9069274620410041890_n“I was just trying to help.”

This was not the book delivery I dreamed of! Where was my hot UPS guy? Why did I have morning breath and need coffee??

I texted The Fella: You need to come home right now.

I attached a picture of the boxes.

He texted me back: Are those your books?

No, they’re Maisey Yates’ books. I stole them from her porch.

And he refused to come home RIGHT THEN.

And now, I had two hours. Two hours to sit there and look at the boxes. Should I open one? Just to see? Just to have a quiet, private moment. Me and my book?

Somewhere around the second cup of coffee, common sense returned. I needed a shower. Some attention paid to my hair and clothing choices. So when The Fella got home to record this momentous moment, I didn’t look like…well….*me* me, but *AUTHOR* me.

12219508_1498442057119284_42090984345599177_n (1)Molly still trying to help.

Everyone asked me how it felt to hold my book for the first time. I felt a lot of things. Joy, relief, excitement, fear.

But the number one feeling was: validated.

I am a writer. I can do this.

 

 

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