37

It’s Monday morning and I’m a year older.  But that’s okay.  I’m still married to a college guy.  I feel grateful that I get to be 37 years old and also not a day over 22.  It’s a little bit like time traveling.  I drive a van, fix breakfast, lunch & dinner for two adorable children, sleep beside a 41 year old man, vacuum the edges and the rugs a couple times a month—all things which my previously 22 year old self would have dreaded—yet I’m utterly fulfilled.  And yet that 22 year old lingers stubbornly within me.  Laughs at me when she sees our reflection in the minivan, rolls her eyes at the rules I’ve made up about sweets and bedtimes, and marvels at my ability to fix (and eat!) tuna salad.

I made myself a pillow to commemorate the occasion.

We have to make our own happiness in life, right?  Not sit around and wait for the party to arrive.  Besides, who could possibly guess that I'd like a burlap pillow with my age stenciled on it?

I also started talking to strangers.  Like you. . .