Thanks to those who let me know their favorite childhood books, particularly Beth, who reminded me about the Little House books. I'm getting the urge to read in bed all night under the covers with a flashlight, like I did when I was little and supposed to be sleeping but couldn't put the book down. Although I suppose husband might find it a tad annoying. Just a tad...
In her article in the newest Oprah magazine (yes, Oprah magazine; don't judge. Seriously. I see you. Judging me. Stop it. It's a very funny article I just read. About the time the author got her cousin to feed a peanut to a monkey and it ripped cousin's hair out. But I digress...), Lisa Kogan tells us "on a bad day I can make Sylvia Plath seem like rodeo clown."
Funny! If it's not funny to you, I'm sorry. It's freakin' hilarious. Sylvia Plath... rodeo clown...
Anyway, I'm with Lisa Kogan. I wasn't always. When I was younger, I figured things would always work out. The glass half full girl. Will it all be okay? Sure. Why not?
Then I got older. Collected my share of life's bumps and bruises and nasty ass surprises. That half full glass switched to the half empty. Didn't want it to, I suppose. But it did. And sometimes I call it being pragmatic. You know, as in it's pragmatic to prepare in case the Cossacks really do ride in (these are metaphor Cossacks, by the way) and destroy the village and pillage my house.
But sometimes, I miss the old me. The one who figured she'd always land butter side up eventually. ( even the butter got a little smeared or dotted with lint balls)
Then again, I'm married to the man who seriously just warned our son to be careful doing yard work in Arizona by telling him about a spate of fatalities of people trying to cut down palm trees.
There's no hope for my glass. None. Guess I'll have to switch to paper cups.
So how 'bout you? Optimist? Pessimist? Somewhere in between?
Til next time.