And I remember walking, that day, and being the kind of nervous you are when there’s so much good momentum and the world is proving to you that it can be better than the things you write for yourself in your resting brain, and tripping over my Birk clogs and blushing a little but laughing more and the steam from my breath in the air while I pontificated about suburbia and the world and what kind of woman I wanted to be.
And I miss me, a little. Not that I think I was smarter then, but I was more distilled somehow. Less moderate, less scared. More sure that my feeling something was enough to make it correct and true, but also a little paralyzed by everything.
