Lying in bed this first of summery Monday mornings, I realized that I miss writing.

I miss making it my job. I miss getting paid for doing what I love.

The sun had not yet risen, but the slice of sky I could see through the slats of my blinds was a bright gray. Birds were singing. An engine came to life in the parking lot below.

It was 5:45.

I hadn't awakened, much less gotten up, at this hour in a very long time. What had prompted my feet to hit the floor then was excitement, a love of the coming day, the idea of getting into the office early, well before anyone else. That gave me two hours to write, completely alone. Usually a column, but sometimes an article.

The first one in after me was always Brad. "Hey, Janie," he'd say cheerfully as he headed toward his dark room.

Brad was quiet and not disruptive. We shared the early morning hours in peaceful, respective silence.

I loved those hours when my head was clear, uncluttered by the details and noise of the coming day. When the writing flowed easily, and the words passed from brain to keyboard with little thought, so natural was the process.

Today was the first time in years I have thought of writing this way again. Today is the first time I've missed it. It feels like re-introducing myself to an old friend.

I think of how I very nearly cringe when people ask me what I do for a living, Reluctantly, I say, "I sell insurance." There is not any pride in this statement and the person who is inquiring always picks up on it, and looks, as I think they should, vaguely disappointed in the answer.

This job was my soft place to land, my desperately needed parachute from the smoking airplane that was the Gazette.

Selling insurance has been a needed break. But it has not been following my bliss.

What will I do about this revelation? Nothing. For now. It could be something as simple as taking this blog to the next level. Who knows.

We are all beyond the age where we can leave a job just because we realize it's a poor fit.

But almost every grand change in life starts with a seed of recognition such as this one. For now, that's enough.

"You never have the energy to do anything," my son said scornfully Friday night.

We were at a playground, an unplanned stop on our way home from the grocery store. I was hungry, and frustrated from another fruitless day of attempted sales. I reacted with unnecessary anger.

"You wait until you're my age!" I said, then, realizing how ancient I sounded, I backpedaled. "Or even ... 30!

"Playgrounds won't be so interesting to you then. That's why they're designed for kids."

Sometimes, I enjoyed the playground. Who doesn't love an occasional swing? A trip or two down the slide? Sure. And the monkey bars? A test of my upper body strength. Occasionally, we'd play a game of tag, charging up and down ladders and slides, scaring the other parents who gaped up at us from their benches below, and exciting the other children. My time limit for these activities was always limited. Robby was inevitably not ready to stop. But never had he expressed it this way.

I was pretty sure I was more active than most parents. Lately, however, life in general had made me feel old. And so, his comment stung. But my response made me feel ancient, as though my best days were behind me.

Saturday, we returned to the same park for what will be a weekly kickball game for single parents and their kids. The 11 of us divided into teams and played an amusing game of kickball. Amusing because all of us adults attempted and utterly failed to catch perfect pop kicks. Amusing because some the kids seemed particularly disappointed in us, even embarrassed, for this. Amusing because even though Dave kicked missiles, he was nearly hyperventilating with exhaustion. And Dennis didn't run for the ball; he jogged lightly, his feet barely leaving the ground, sweat beading his forehead.

I no longer felt alone. In fact, I felt fantastic. Because clearly, of the five of us, I was the most energetic. I was a little ashamed of myself, glorying in the good health I was lucky to have. Yet, remembering my son's disappoint expression of the night before, I felt a small sense of redemption.

After the game, we drove to a barbecue hosted by a member of the same group. The kids fanned out into a common area in the middle of the townhouses there. Out came soccer balls, croquet balls, Superballs and footballs. My son was in kid heaven.

Me, I hung with the adults, sitting on the grass, conversing about things like how fast our kids were growing, what they would and would not eat, how tough it was to be a single parent, how much we all looked forward to getting out with other adults. Eventually, I grew weary of the conversation and found my son. We batted the soccer ball around for nearly half an hour until someone shouted, "Let's play a game!"

It was normally at this point that I would disappaer into the house, or find a comfy lawn chair from which to safely watch. Uncoordinated as a child, the last one picked for almost every grade school game, I am not about team sports.

But I was already standing in the common area, among the dozen kids and three other adults who were gathering to play. I glanced longingly at the cluster of adults on the deck. They chatted and laughed, and watched curiously as we formed teams. There lay my comfort zone. But no matter what I did at this point, I would obviously be slinking away.

My son was already setting up the goals. I knew he wanted me to play. I could not disappoint him or myself.

We divided up into teams: Six small children, three teenagers and only four adults.

The game began.

I flinched the first time the ball descended upon me from above, and from there on, my teammates knew to take over from me in those situations. But otherwise, I needed no help at all. Caught quickly up in the competition, I found myself in the middle of the fray, kicking without hesitation at the ball, prizing it away from the well-practiced, teenaged members of the opposing team, steering it clear of my son, the opponents' goalie.

It was not a gentle game. Two children were knocked out in a row, one when the soccer ball hit in square in the gut and stole his breath, another when the ball slapped him in the face.

The teenagers were not going easy on any of us. I took kicks to the shins, a soccer ball cheek smash as well as a ball to the crotch.

I was far from good, obviously unskilled in the game. But I was also far from the sidelines. Breathing hard along with not only the other adults, but the younger players as well. The sun had gone down. The night was chilly. My shirt was soaked with sweat.

"You've gotten so aggressive in the last half hour," one of my teammates said during a break in the game. "I love it!"

I scarcely acknowledged him. The ball was back in play. Robby's team won by one point. Both teams came together in the end for a group High 5, something I had never before done.

My limbs began to complain about it all shortly after we got home. I popped two ibuprofen pills, then fell into bed.

I dreamt that my legs had ceased to work and throbbed with pain. I was attempting to cross a city street, but instead of walking, I was dragging myself with my hands, my damaged legs trailing behind me. It was the dark of night. Light, cold rain fell. I looked up, and saw headlights closing in on me.

I woke up. My legs were functional but oh, how they throbbed.

Robby followed me into consciousness an hour later. His blond hair was, as always at this time of day, completely askew. He smiling sleepily. It was at this hour that I found him his most adorable.

He nestled into the couch and I sat down beside him.

"Yesterday was fun, huh?" I said.

He nodded, giving me another grin.

"You sore from any of that?" I asked.

He touched his leg and frowned. "Yeah," he said, then punched the remove to bring up Cartoon Network.

I thought of saying, "Did you see me tearing it up out there?" or, "Still think your mom has no energy?" But that would be all for me, some little dig designed to get even. And that has nothing to do with being a good mother.

In the end, I said nothing. We sat there, engaged in our morning cuddle, until the aches became a single hum of contentment.

It doesn't happen very often, but once in a while, I fall in love. It happened gradually over the last month, and last night, I realized I was head over heels.

I haven't been blogging often because I haven't been feeling mentally on top. In fact, I've been feeling like shit. None too inspired to write, none too eager to broadcast the return of nasty feelings.

In a search for remedies, I abandoned my newly acquired paperback about a 38-year-old woman who retreats to find the meaning in her life, to understand why she has always seen her value in other people's eyes, why she clings to people she loves - even though they do not love her in the same way - and to society's rituals and expectations. In short, I kept thinking as I read, why she is so beautifully human.

I realized the book was making me sad, so similar were her comments to my thoughts. Seeing them in print made me feel common. And we all want to feel special, even in our misery. So I exchanged it for the newest novel from Alice Hoffman. Her books are typically about the magic of the human experience, sprinkled with elements both sadness and surprises. Magical, as I said. The thing we all seek and are all so amazed to sometimes find. The thing that happens, I am convinced, if we only believe that it will.

I surfed the TV for something light, too, and landed last night on Comedy Central.

And there he was. My new love. Jon Stewart, host of the Daily Show.

Jon Stewart has, I guess, been around for years. You may laugh to know that while I may have heard his name, I never knew who he was, or really why he was famous. About a month ago, I caught him in an interview with the host of some random talk show. He was like all of the men I've fallen for lately: Whip smart and intelligent with deadly wit and good looks.

I watched the interview until the end and realized I was disappointed when the credits rolled. But that, I told myself, was that. I wasn't interested enough to find out when the Daily Show aired. TV is not my bag, you see. It's the computer that holds me hostage.

Then, last night, he blasted into my living room. Host of his own show. A pitifully short half hour wrap-up of the day's news, relayed Saturday Night Live style (which I vaguely recall is where he began).

Jon Stewart delivers it with effortless comedic mastery. It is a hurricane of humor wrapped around kernels of fact, awash in conservative smashing and Bush bashing - things which bring me joy in even my darkest hours - with a few jabs directed toward extreme liberalism.

The humor thawed a little misery. But it wasn't just that. Jon Stewart's face - like Jerry Seinfeld's - made me feel good. Something Leno manages irregularly and Letterman manages not at all. I admired the ways he delivered comedy - with frequent flashes of his dimples, a dance of the eyes, the arch or drop of an eyebrow, a dead stare. More said without words than with them. I liked that he looked to be my age, just slightly jowly and graying at the temples. I was entranced by his interview with John Kerry, and the way he laced serious, pointed questions in among the humor. It was, in short, a delicious experience.

Jon was back in my apartment tonight. I was finishing laundry at the time, which meant leaving the building to unload the dryer at the laundry facility down the sidewalk. Idiot, I thought. From now on, I would time these mundane events for non-Daily Show time. I waited for a commercial break, ran to the laundry building, stuffed clothes into bags and ran back in record time. Jon smiled at me. The clothes and sheets wrinkled as I dropped them on the floor and sat on the couch to watch.

Unlike most men who've crossed my path, Jon is reliable. He'll be there for me, every night at 9 p.m., warming my heart and lightening my mood. And while he's not as dashing, there's another man waiting in the wings for me when Jon leaves for the night: Stephen Colbert.

Watch and see. But don't be seduced by him. Remember, he's my man.

Richard and Adamarie married 35 years ago. He is 80, tall and handsome with wavy white hair and a deep but gentle voice. She is 70, with only a smattering of gray in her dark brown hair and an expression that I believe never strays far from sweet.

Adamarie is suffering from memory loss. Richard won't allow the label Alzheimer's, or even dementia. Apparently, the couple's doctor has not yet uttered those words either, but it lurks among the three of them, eager to make an entrance. Richard is barring the door.

I enrolled both of them in our Medicare program Friday. They live in a small apartment in a low-income housing complex. I expected something neat but shabby, but instead, I was welcomed into a home overflowing with antiques, decorated with Victorian flair. It also overflowed with love, and I felt its embrace before I found a seat on the couch.

We talked very little of business. Instead, with a little encouragement from me, they talked of their lives together, how lucky they had been to find one another, how wonderful those 35 years.

"She's my reason for living," he said. "God knew was he was doing when he sent her to me.

Richard had been deathly ill a year before. "When I was in the hospital, I hallucinated that she had died."

His eyes filled with tears. "It haunts me to this day."

Now, Adamarie was ill. He would do everything humanly possible, he said, to keep her healthy.

She smiled, shook her head and turned to me. "I'm blessed. I am blessed with this man."

Not being particularly religious, I normally found frequent references to "blessings" and divine intervention a bit trite and annoying. But not from this couple. This was part of their story, part of who they were. From them, it sounded perfectly natural. It lent the story of their live the mystical shine it merited.

Richard told me about the vitamin supplements they were taking to help combat her memory loss. They had purchased an inversion table, and twice a day, Adamarie hung upside down from it with the aim of keeping the blood circulating in her brain. He massaged her twice daily, he said, again with the same purpose.

Their doctor, he said, had asked permission to share their story at an Alzheimer's convention he was leading. At first, Richard had hesitated. It was, after all, a convention about the word they did not use. But the doctor reassured him theirs was a story of inspiration. They had managed to not only stop Adamarie's memory loss, but slowly, to reverse it, and that, he said, made it a story worth sharing.

"I want to tell them that there is one reason for her success," the doctor said. "And that is unconditional love."

"I thought that was quite a compliment," said Richard, smiling at Adamarie, who sat next to me on the couch.

She turned toward me, and patted my knee. "Blessed, I tell you."

I stayed with them for almost two hours. Richard, a former professional singer, played a tape of one of his performances. They showed me family photographs, offered me tea and asked me about my own family. They told me to stop by some time at the end of a hard day and they would give me "something stronger than tea." Come for dinner, they urged me. Come anytime.

Rarely do I stay so long at one call, but the truth was, I was basking in the happy atmosphere of this home, witnessing the apparent miracle of the kind of unconditional love that rarely shows its face to the world.

At the end, our conversation turned at last to the reason for my visit. We filled out the application. I asked Adamarie for her birthday. "May 25 -" she stopped. The sweet expression fell away for a moment, replaced by confusion. "1927?" she faltered.

Her eyes sought, and found, her husband's. He fixed her with a steady, reassuring gaze.

"No, no, my dear," he said. "1937."

Her furrowed brow relaxed. Her smile, and peaceful expression, returned.

"Yes, of course," she said, looking back to me. "1937."

She looked at him and whispered a single word; one I was not meant to hear. "Blessed."