My imagination is spiraling out of control, here.

I have dreams of having a farm in the city. Not a farm the way America looks at farms now. No, just enough to feed my family. Live chickens clucking around the backyard making fresh eggs for my omelette. A goat to milk. Goat's milk cheese made in my very own kitchen. 

I imagine myself in a tank top and shorts, dirty knees and a sweaty face, pulling weeds with a grin from ear to ear.

I walk out to the garden in the middle of cooking dinner for friends to snip some thyme or rosemary. 

I pick strawberries in the morning to put on my cereal.

I see rows and rows of canned goods in the basement as the leaves start to change outside. Homemade salsa, tomatoes, carrots, peas, and beans. 

I see myself sipping iced tea on the porch after a long day toiling in the garden. The short dog lounging at my feet.

I never make omelettes and chickens are expensive. 

I don't particularly like gardening, but do like the spoils that come from it. It is more likely that the situation will turn into "I weeded the garden last time. It's your turn."

I don't eat cereal. I hate peas. And I would much rather sip a beer than iced tea.

I have to rein myself in and not take on more than I am willing to do. Is walking a mile to and from work unreasonable? No. Not at all. 

Is it unreasonable to gather the boy every Sunday and walk to the grocery store? I don't think so.

Is it unreasonable to think that in one week I can paint a whole house, unpack all the boxes, walk to and from work, walk to the grocery store, plant a garden, and shoot rainbows out of my ass? Why, yes. Yes it is. 

Moderation, Erratic. The garden can wait until next year. I am going to need someone to text this to me daily.