With apologies to Elton John, I *can* feel the love tonight

I just went to my own funeral.

Well, not really. Just feels like it.

And, truth be told, I probably look kinda like I died with my horribly disheveled hair and puffy eyes. Yet, I have never felt more alive.

I resigned from pretty much the only job I’ve ever had (aside from teenage employment at a tennis club) doing the only thing I’ve ever done: newspaper journalism.

I posted my resignation — the very one I emailed, apparently in blue font, to the big wigs — on Facebook and am completely overwhelmed by the response. People I don’t even know said the nicest things. People I do know said some super nice stuff, too. I want to print out the entire scroll of comments and roll in it like my dog does with dirty towels, or maybe less weird, sleep with it under my pillow.

You like me. You really like ME!

I’m not a tattoo girl, but a sleeve with all the kudos is tempting. So much validation is pretty darn life affirming.

When you write for a newspaper, you don’t get a lot of feedback. Maybe it’s because the font is too small for the diehard readers who average 70-plus years old. Maybe it’s just apathy. Pretty much the only time you’re really guaranteed feedback is when you really piss off someone. It’s the nature of the beast for any industry, I’m sure. You have a cafe and someone enjoys the chocolate cake, the waiter takes back a clean plate. The customer may not say anything, but the licked-clean dish is all you need. Reporters don’t ever get to see the plate. You write up something, send it out and move on to the next story.

So, to have almost 500 people bother to hit a “like” button and to have nearly 200 take the time to write something?! Well, not gonna lie, I cried. That explains the puffy eyes. It does not explain the hair. I have no excuse for that.