34 years later and you’re still wearing those shoes; still putting them on the wrong feet even.

you still insist on carrying a bag entirely too big for your person. and then moan and wail about your aching spine to whomever will listen. usually someone furry with a wildly, wagging tail and with the eyelash singeing breath of salmon and sweet potato. 

this is the last time you will have ever sported “bangs,” you started asking for “layers” even before you knew about santa.

and even when santa does come into the picture, he still won’t hold a candle to your dad. 

you’ll think your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and hate it as a little girl that you are not blue-eyed and blond like she is.

beets make you barf, and you’d prefer strawberry shortcake over chocolate pie.

 doing the wrong thing and disappointing others scares you more than monsters in the closet; getting into trouble gives you nightmares. 

people pleasing is your favorite sport.

early mornings are your peak hours. your inner bumblebee is its most blithe and zippy in the dark, pre-dawn hours. 

for every tear you shed there is a binate, multi-fold giggle-fest; because the sad is oftentimes HILARIOUS!

 you live and die for the dance party.