I can write long emails.
Martin will come up behind me, glance at an email I’m writing, do a double-take, and burst out, horrified, “Carol! You can not send that to so-and-so!”
But I do. I always do. I can’t help it. I have things to say.
Actually, I don’t.
“Maybe this isn’t a very good idea,” I thought as I lowered myself slowly into the poison oak.
I must hasten to say that I did not jump out of bed that morning, thinking, “Woo hoo! Today’s the day I get to immerse myself in poison oak! Finally!”
I’m not stupid.
Although…. That first sentence worries me, as it possibly argues otherwise.