It is really not that hard to get me in “the zone” but once I’m in “the zone”, it is often difficult to get me out. Like, I started writing the daily prompt last July and haven’t stopped since then. Why? Because I’m hooked. I am now constantly in my writing zone, I can’t stop.

If I have to tell a story about this, it would probably be when I was in Texas. I’m feeling slightly nostalgic now. I had so much fun back then even though that “fun” had only occupied probably less than a tenth of that year and a half while drama and misery occupied the other nine-tenth.

I lived next to my high school in Texas and after the spring semester of my freshman year, I wasn’t required to take P.E. until my junior year. So you can see, living next to the school gave me very little exercise whatsoever and if you ever been in Texas, you’d know the humidity can drive a person so insane that you would never ever want to leave the house again.

That’s what happened with me. I wanted to stay within the 24-hour air-conditioned walls of the apartment. Just standing outside for five minutes made everything stuck to my body. So instead, I often parked myself on my piano bench. My hands would be getting tons of exercise hitting those keys while the rest of my body wasn’t. So quickly, there goes the weight.

As the rainy days of spring ended and summer was on the horizon, my step-father began urging me to go exercise. “No,” I would whine, “the humidity is crazy out there.”

So one day, he suggested we go play Frisbee. “Where?” I had asked.

He suggested the park by his sister’s house and together. So we got into the car, I held the Frisbee on my lap, and he drove a couple miles to the park.

I haven’t played since middle school and wasn’t very good at it. I could only catch it with both hands. We found a spot by a tree and just started tossing the Frisbee. I caught it the first few times and then subconsciously, I noticed my step-father stepping farther and farther away from me and I was doing the same thing. Then the further we stepped away from each other, the harder it was for me to catch the Frisbee due my poor hand-eye coordination.

Each time I missed the Frisbee, he would clap his hands and say, “go get it, chop chop!”

Then I would stagger breathlessly over to the spot to retrieve the Frisbee. We kept throwing it at each other while I kept sweating but at the same time, I was comfortable under the shade of the tree. Before I knew, the sky had darkened, the sun had begun to set, and it was time for us to go home. But I don’t want to go, I was just getting good at it. I could finally catch it single-handed. I was in Frisbee mode.

“Some other time,” he said breathlessly as I noticed him sweating through his shirt.

After that, we only played once at the park before my step-father lost interest and we just played on the school’s giant football field. Then, as more drama settled, we stopped playing altogether as I began avoiding him instead.

Playing Frisbee was one of those times when I could forget about the constant fights and drama. It was one of those times when I finally felt like I was just a kid playing with my step-father and not constantly have to worry about things. That was the step-father I loved and not the moody, smoking, and alcoholic man that’s claiming to be my step-father.