Democrat or Republican, alt-left or alt-right, I think we can agree that the recent news cycle has been like riding an old, rickety roller coaster you’re sure is going to come apart at any moment.

The activist in me swelled with pride. The introvert in me wanted to curl up in a ball and scream, “Stop touching me!!”

I cast my ballot and felt the grey exhaustion of the past election fade a little.

She wasn’t exactly the embodiment of compassion as she handed me a robe and told me I could leave my socks on.

This Thanksgiving I wanted to make it special. I wanted to take on the impossible task of filling the giant, Spanish-speaking, long-story-telling gap Ron left at our table.

All I know is that after the election results, I engaged in my first ever Facebook fight and buried myself in bed with a bottle of wine to binge watch “The Crown.”

These last few months I’ve been pretty quiet but last week, during a normal day of rewrites, I suddenly thought of a joke.

I once pasted an ad from a clothing magazine into my scrapbook that said “When I Grow Up, I’m Going To Be President And My Husband’s Going To Be First Man.”

Jason often mentions that my anxiety might lessen if I lived in a more “peaceful” environment. I often mention that I don’t like it when he tells me what to do.

Ron’s death was like his life: dramatic and on his own schedule.

I hate fighting. Like any good Midwesterner, I prefer to shove everything deep down inside and never talk about it again until one day I passively aggressively give him the smaller piece of chicken.  

A year ago this kind of news would have flattened me – sent me to bed for the weekend with a bottle of wine and a “Call The Midwife” binge session.

People say this should be a magical time but it doesn’t feel very magical. Instead, it feels like I’m playing Russian roulette with my ovaries.

So what happens when your heart is divided?

It was your basic, week-long summer camp – set on a big lake, boasting activities like canoeing, fishing, campfires and speaking only in Norwegian.

When I was in fourth grade we had a Halloween party at school. Most of the girls were going to dress as a witch or a princess but I secretly wanted to dress as the decidedly less popular choice of “Animal Trainer.”

Not since leaving their village in Norway has any woman in my grandma’s family moved as far away as I have.  She cannot comprehend what I’m doing out here “with the all the liberals.”

My first boyfriend was a climber and just like his tattoos and his double pierced right nipple, it had always impressed me.

Some people call it “being in the zone” – my husband calls it “being terrified to interrupt me because I might yell at him.”

A word about my college: I’m crazy for it.