If life is a journey, it's no weekend jaunt to the beach. It's an around-the-world expedition riddled with dangerous passages and course corrections.

My marriage is a journey, unfortunately quite a rough one of late. My relationship to my ailing father and my siblings who also help take care of him is always under construction.

Like many people, I also grapple with work-life balance: how much of myself do I put into my job or even any given project, and how much do I hold in reserve?

I've added another journey. Crazy, right? But stick with me...this one might be worth the added trouble.

I've embarked on a six-month yoga teacher training, and it's intense. The amount and level of physical, academic, and emotional study only seems to grow, week to week. At one point early on I said to a classmate that this might not have been the right time to engage in such a difficult program. Then we started our course of yogic philosophy.

Now I'm chartering more twists and turns in my mind than on the mat. While the training is physically challenging, this journey goes within, and the steadiness of mind I'm building benefits every part of my life.

So this one's a staycation. And there couldn't be a better time for it.

Imagine? YOU could take The Gold every time!

Inspired by the Olympics and delusional that I somehow can still get my body to look like those women's volleyball contenders, I was thinking...

There are so many things a divorced gal becomes proficient at by necessity — by herself — that there should be some way to get credit for it. Just maybe there should be some kind of Divorced Women's Olympics.

There would be global contenders.

Here are some divisions in which any one of you could take a medal:

Grocery Power Lifting

The Financial Balance Beam

She-Man Provider Competition

Single Mom Relay

Solo Wrestling With Yourself

Set the Table Tennis

Laundry Volleyball

Extreme Soul Searching

My favorite? The Divorce Decathalon!

"Heptathlon" actually is the proper word for the female version of this track and field competition, made up of these seven events: 100 meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, 200 meter sprint, long jump, javelin throw, and the 800 meter run.

As we all know, this sounds like a typical day BEFORE lunch.

The final event would be the "Late Life Luge"...jump on, hang on, close your eyes, say a prayer, take the ride of your life and hope you make it to the finish line in one piece.

The last one might take some extra practice but since you've got nothing to lose — you might as well Go For The Gold!

I've taken to running again. Though I've run before for exercise, the vein that drives the behavior is almost entirely new: Running is a rather wicked form of escapism.

For the last few days, I have found myself running when I could think to do nothing else to squash the anger, anxiety, and fear that grips me at any given point of every day.

Equipped with running shoes and a heart rate monitor, I run: 20 minutes, 30 minutes, one hour, two hours. For the longer runs, there are a few breaks, but mostly, I need the rhythmically soothing thumping of my feet on the road — and of my pulse in my ear.

I run past the point of exhaustion and through pain. When I feel as if I need a break, I quicken my pace. If I feel that familiar twinge of pain in my knee, I shuffle to a tune on my iPod with a faster tempo, turn up the volume, change my stride and run faster.

Ignore fatigue, run through the pain: These things don't matter. It's all in your head. Block it out and move on. Increase your speed and these demons can't keep up with you.

This is what I like to believe. It's insane at best, and nowhere close to being true — but that doesn't stop me from trying.

At the end of the run, more often than not, I find myself exhausted to the point of immobilization, and the demons I worked so hard to escape settle back into my head...

It's 4 AM and the pillow wrapped half-way around my head is insulation from the snores across the bed. Every night together is like this and I just want it to stop. Steals my nights, that noise.

Sharing a bed again, a room, with someone takes big recalibration. We're not living in one house together yet, but half the week Sam and I stay in one place.

I try to fall asleep first, get deep into REM before the rumbling starts because I remember something now. It's not easy to share my sleeping space. Sam's snores engine-loud; you can hear it down the hall.

I used to wonder why a married couple would ever want separate bedrooms. It seemed to me like sleeping separately was a tell tale sign of T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

We're sold a packaged picture of how happily ever after should look, and it never has more than one bed.

Why is it no one ever tells you about the importance of space before a first marriage? Nobody ever says while you are busy building a life together, don't forget to develop an equally sound life of your own so you maintain a strong sense of self.

These nights together are good practice, just the way sitting in a therapist's office every week hashing out the "how's this going to work" is good practice. Going back into this marriage a second time after two years on my own is, I guess, like preparing for any second marriage. You have the benefit of practice and wisdom and experience that were impossible the first go around.

You have the perspective of age and knowing yourself and your expectations and your limits in way that only comes with years. Lessons hard won and learned slow.

And after two years apart I know this: I like sleeping in my own bed by my own self without a pillow wrapped around my head to dull the snoring. Sex is one thing, but sleep? That's another, and I don't get much of it sharing a bed.

Every time Sam and I walk into a potential rental house, the muscles in my body clench. Instant tension under my skin. And I'm aware of this.

There's that saying: The body doesn't lie. And a friend once told me the body is the brain, you can't separate them out. I spun for months on that one, trying dissect the paradox of its truth.

But I get it.

When I have a rough day with my kids, when my patience is short and every touch torture, it's my body making life so hard. When my body is tense it has a strangle hold on my brain. My mood is short and ugly. When I'm relaxed, anything goes and I can go with anything.

Maybe it's the kids that trigger these house hunting freeze-ups. The way an empty house brings on instant off-the-wall insanity and they're moving loud and fast and relentlessly.

It was like that when I looked at my little post-separation apartment with Lila, too. My mellow 22-month-old ran screaming around the hardwoods. The moment we walked out my sweet quiet baby was back.

Could be the kids I'm reacting to, too. Could be the reinvention of my marriage with Sam.

Right now my biggest fear is this big thinking brain of mine with its fat-mouth ego could have an agenda totally at odds with the rest of me. The whole of me. And if I'm not careful I'll make a wrong turn back into oblivion.

After 10 years of marriage and another two of separation, it seems like this whole stay-or-go thing should be clear. Especially since I've agreed to stay.

My brain says nobody loves you like he does, baby. And nobody will ever love your kids that way either. When I'm quiet I can hear my soul whisper in agreement.

So why is it that my shoulder is rock-knotted and I can't turn my head?

A year ago I was on my way out the door, ready to end a relationship that had deteriorated into more of a roommate situation than a happy marriage.

A year ago I was, shall we say, a few pounds lighter. I realized this just the other day when I could no longer ignore how tight my clothes were feeling lately. I worked up the courage to weigh myself and yep...I had packed on 20 pounds.

I guess I could see this coming. My work schedule has been really hectic so I can't make it to the gym as much as I would like, but 20 pounds? Yikes! I already needed to lose a little, but now I have to lose a few — plus 20. That's no fun.

It was a big wakeup call. I don't take care of myself like I should, or at least I haven't been in this last year since I made the attempt to leave my husband and then wound up staying. Maybe I'm sabotaging myself, or maybe I just don't think I'm worth the effort anymore.

By the way, in case you're wondering, yes...I do analyze everything.

There's a theory that people gain weight intentionally — yet subconsciously — because they are trying to distance themselves from other people. I guess this makes sense. I stayed, but we certainly aren't as close as we once were. I still think about leaving every day. Maybe my weight gain is my subconscious effort to distance myself further from him. Maybe I'm trying to make him leave me.

Or maybe I just need to go the gym more.

I distinctly remember the pills. When Levi left me, I couldn't sleep and my doctor prescribed me some pretty powerful sleeping pills — even though I was pregnant...

Sometimes when I have a calm moment, which are few and far between, I find myself thinking of all the things that have changed in my life over the last year. It reminds me of that quote, "The only thing that ever stays the same is change." I had never realized before how true that really is. Nothing stays the same — even the best things.

My divorce practically started on the eve of my son's birth. Several emotions all crammed into one — all conflicting — rendered me an absolute mess.

I remember thinking I would never be happy again. I remember worrying about how I was going to support a baby by myself. I remember scrounging for change in between the couch cushions for diapers, thinking things couldn't possibly be any worse.

I remember feeling abandoned and hopeless. I couldn't see the light.

I remember one night — which I haven't told anybody about until now — I was lying in bed, in a house all by myself, totally exhausted from being up all day and night with an infant, all by myself.

I remember realizing that it was cold and walking over to the thermostat to see that the temperature was dropping. No heat, no money for oil. I dressed the baby in warm clothes and put him in bed with me. I remember lying there, wanting to cry, but nothing would come out. I was too exhausted for tears.

It was then that I remembered the pills. My doctor prescribed me some pretty powerful sleeping pills when Levi took off — even though I was pregnant. He also gave me an anti-depressant.

I hadn't taken very many of them, but for some reason I still had them in the cabinet. I remember thinking to myself that I should just go downstairs and take those pills.

I wanted to give up.

I hadn't had any time off in 15 days and was really looking forward to my weekend as I got into my car to leave work. I picked Adrian up from daycare and he was happier than ever to see me.

He gave me this huge smile and came rushing toward me, arms wide open. That boy makes my heart melt. Every time I see him it's magical.

We went home, had dinner, and crashed early with plans to meet some friends at the beach the next day. The next morning, birds were singing and the sun was shining.

We arrived at the beach, got a prime spot, and Adrian began to play in the sand as I read a magazine. Watching my sweet little boy, I reflected on how truly blessed I am.

It was shaping up to be a fabulous day.

Then, mid-afternoon, Adrian plopped down in my lap so I could put sunscreen on him.

That's when I saw it — a nasty, whitish bug running around in my son's hair. I gasped and parted his beautiful blond locks to reveal another one ... and then another.

At that point, I shouted an expletive, and called my friend Rachel over. She confirmed it. Adrian had head lice.

Gross.

So, the day at the beach was now ruined. I was in hysterics and on the phone calling Adrian's doctor. Rachel was picking through my really thick, really long hair, in search of the disgusting bugs. She didn't find any.

The doctor told me the name of what to put on my son's head, and added that I should calm down. I shoved Adrian in the car and we drove to the drugstore.

I got the treatment and read the directions, which say that it's ideal to have someone (a buddy) look through your hair with a magnifying glass to locate and remove any of the nits, or little eggs.

Well, I'm Adrian's lice buddy, but who is mine? No one, that's who.

Rachel lives way too far away, and there's no way in hell I'm calling up anyone else and asking them to remove lice eggs from my hair.

What's a single mom to do?