home sweet home
this used to be my playground
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I’m not as young as I used to be.
That’s a terrifying, terrible thing to say, being that I am just shy of my first quarter-century, but I feel it. I feel the aches and gravity of age. In Phoenix, I walked into the kitchen and the proverbial writing on the wall (“mene, mene, tekel, uparsin” and all that jazz) appeared before me in the manifestation of a gaggle of corn-fed Nebraska girls.
Of course, I will never be blonde (without help from L’Oreal, of course) or blue-eyed (without help from Bausch & Lomb), so I should probably look to other things. But I remember being in my salad days with the metabolism of a hummingbird and thinking to myself: “I am going to be thin forever.“
Now, after having been a desk jockey for the past five years and secretly indulging my love of M&Ms and dark Toblerone, I am slightly appalled and embarassed. I am sensible enough not to cry into my Nutty Waffle Cone, and amused enough at the irony of the situation to bemoan this publicly. And it isn’t as if I’m some horrible hose beast, as my ability to fascinate my airplane seatmate shows. However, in packing up my closets in preparation for my move, I went through bales of cute, pretty, fanciful clothing that would require strict diet and exercise in order to fit again.
I, of course, don’t always have the excuse of “I’m busy.” Because despite juggling work, more work, video games, vacations, bath times, and mad cooking sessions, I do have time to just vegetate on my couch and feed my Law and Order obsession. And I could wake up early