Stodge Podge

Warning!: I'm feeling a little soft on the inside.

In a good way.

I'm not going to go smearing Ugly Cry on your sleeve or anything, but I'm tied loosely nostalgic at the middle tonight, and grateful to the raggedy ends of my locks.

I guess a day topped-off with a bow-tied visitor bearing Swedish pastries will do that to a girl.

What started with mad dashes and soggy hair-dos and fusses mellowed into old-friend hugs, rain boots all around, and the kind of talks you might have with a friend who knew you from back-when, but who didn't really know you.

We mental-pictured the same little town, we smelled the same varnishy scent of the same little school. We rearranged things we thought we knew for sure and lamented the state of "the young'uns these days" with our legs crossed identically at the knees. We acknowledged our stodginess.

He moved on down the road and the babies woke up happy and the house filled up again with noise and spills and lock-eyed talks about what honesty really means.

I am the luckiest gal, for living this unexpected life. I'm learning new truths about myself and shucking the old lies like a bad shirt.

I'm square-dancing on common ground and waltzing across a wide floor of New.

I'm finding plenty of room in here.

I'm finding that "old" is quite relative and stodginess, in the grand scheme of things, is underrated.

(This one's for you, Jason!)