Since I can’t think of anything interesting to write about today, preparing for the big shopping night has wiped me out, I decided to take one of the suggestions from a blog inspiration website (which I can’t find again and can’t remember the name of) and the question was:
What age would you like to be?
I would have to say eight years old. It was 1984. I was in the third grade, learning cursive, finally enjoying school a little. I got my first pair of skis and went to Florida for the first time. I took my first drawing lessons with Mrs. Sobol. I didn’t care about mortgages or car payments or the electric company planning to raise my bill 34%. I didn’t care about my hair or weight or looks in general since it would be another six years before I met Luke. I had four grandparents, no one I knew had died, I hadn’t faced tragedy, and living in a small small town, I don’t think I even faced any mean kids yet. There was no cable, no MTV, no reality TV. I had no reason to lust after a new MacBook, seeing as how there were no home computers. I had no concept of war, I had never heard of Al Queda, and I didn’t know who George Bush was. I had never had my heart broken or my trust betrayed. It was a good time.
Of course, at eight I also had never fallen in love or felt the joy of home ownership. I had never ridden my motorcycle down a sunny country road and never felt the warmth of my puppy-dog sleeping next to me. I had never held my newborn nephews and made them smile and I had never felt the pride of receiving a college diploma. And I had never blogged.
OK, I take it back. Thirty is my answer. I would like to be thirty years old.