I just finished the Christmas letter that has now become a New Year letter and I feel wrung out.  Writing is maybe in a small way like birthing.  You create something from yourself and when it is out there hung on the page, you are out there hanging on the page.  And you hope that you're attractive and right and normalish without being boring and cliche and dramatic.  You hope people think you're cute.

Oh the anxiety.  Oh the ridiculousness.

On a completely separate, slightly less dramatic note: our luggage that was lost has been found and delivered.  Praise Jesus, I was starting to experience a different kind of anxiety.  Separation anxiety from my straightener, my make up, and my favorite brush.

Life is clearly pretty rough over in the Cropper Casa.