Yesterday I had one of those looking-at-myself-from-the-outside moments, when I was wearing my apron and baking loaves of whole grain bread and nice voices were rising from the spot on the floor where my kids were playing together (nicely!) and I had a soothing piano concerto on in the background and my husband was off scrounging for eggs from our co-op chickens and I thought:
How did I come to this life?
How did the high-school me, who never would have covered up a cute shirt with an apron, come to this?
How did the college me, who ate cold cereal and Twizzlers for dinner and was hopelessly devoted to both Chris Cornell of Soundgarden and Lenny Kravitz, come to this?
How did the early-married me, who in her corporate-ladder haste attempted omelets with Eggbeaters that had been in the fridge for ages, come to this?
I have no idea how these things happen, these growing-up things that bring us to care about where our bread comes from, that broaden our tastes in everything from eggs to music, but I admit I think it’s nice. And I’ve saved all the pieces of old me that I care to have around — the me that likes cute shirts, for example. And Lenny, though not my first choice anymore, remains kind of hot.
Share this Post