Confessions of a Decade: INTRO

When I was 18 I was sure that when I hit 30 I would no longer need a bra, but ace bandages and duct tape.  And I assumed I would be searching for red hairs through the grey, instead of the other way around.  I was dumb.  At the end of my twenties the only physical changes that cause me to bemoan are:

1.  My hair has become a gazilliionionionbajillion times more unruly than ever before.  Uncool.
2.  I still stand at 5'1", which means I still need a foot stool to reach my kitchen cupboards.  I put healthy stuff on the top shelf.
3.  I was lassoed by the reading glass bandit.  He has good aim.  Luckily I look cute in glasses or his sleeping with one eye open would be no match for my four eye sucker punch to the face.

My twenties.  Wow.  Ten years peppered with apologies I regret not offering, haircuts my best friends will be held accountable for not stopping, and excuses I will be famous for inventing.  I hope my great grandkids will blush and feel personally validated when they discover the kinds of mistakes I made in my younger years, exposing proof that you can find your way out of just about everything.  If not by talking your way out, definitely by buying it.  Or divorcing it.  Or painting it.  Or taking it to ice cream.  Or selling it.  Or returning it within 30 days of purchase with receipt.  

The bad has been markedly trumped by the good.  In the race of life, the good has lapped the bad about 80 times.  The bad is really slow.  It probably runs with super-glued anvil shoes that are a few sizes too big.  Yes.  The bad is slow and clumsy.  I became the aunt to my 7th nephew this year (lapped again, bad).  That makes 12 nieces and nephews total.  I've reached fitness goals over the last few years that make my heart sing (you are seriously pigging out on my dust, bad).  I've traveled to many new places, made friends from all over the world, and I even sang the National Anthem.  Well, that happened in the shower.  I'd appreciate you not telling me how to measure my successes, and then going the extra mile by witholding your judgement until you have heard my water-muffled vocals.

Dear 18-year-old-self, you were wrong.  Whew!