A little about a lot

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

10-year-old's hands

I saw Jackie walking with her quick, purposeful steps toward me and a huge grin spread across my face. We hugged and smiled and laughed and said our hellos in a rush of words.

I celebrated the baby bump that was beginning to form on her formerly non-existent belly and she grabbed my left hand to examine the ring Seth gave me when he proposed.

"It's beautiful!" she said. "Wow. You have, like, 10-year-old hands."

And that is why I love Jackie.

The girl has been my best friend since the 8th grade. I think she knows my heart so well that sometimes her comments carry more meaning than an outsider would think.

I have 10-year-old hands. I do. My nails are short, my fingers are small and I don't take care of my cuticles.

And now there is a diamond ring on one of the fingers that says that I'm a grown up.

And I am - but I think I still sometimes feel like the 10-year-old my hands say I am.

I have no idea how to make a pot roast. And it isn't really that surprising if I run out of gas.

There are a lot of ingredients in the typical cookbook that I've never heard of.

I don't own anything that would allow me to "dust," and my vacuum cleaner sucks -but not in a good way. It really doesn't matter though because I never use it.

A safety pin holds together one of my favorite pairs of pants and I've never even considered a pair of "sensible" shoes. I own an iron, but no ironing board.

I still own the same television my parents gave me when I went to college and it is perched on a coffee table that my grandpa gave me and I painted blue.

On really sunny spring days I still feel like taking off my shirt and driving in my bra, but typically restrain myself from doing so. (Showing progress there, I guess.)

None of my dishes match and all of my knives are dull. Also, I sustain myself with peanut butter and jelly and only recently learned how to cook an egg.

I turn bright red when I even THINK about facing my co-workers after my honeymoon and my favorite movies still tend to be of the Disney variety.

I don't read deep books, I don't watch dramatic movies, and I think going to an art gallery is fun ... for about 30 minutes.

Luckily - the man who is going to make this 26-year-old child his wife knows all of these things about me and loves me anyway. He can't eat three square meals of PB&J like I can, but is more than happy to cook himself a pork chop. Also, his knives are all sharp and he understands how a 401K works - so I think together we'll be OK.

Better than Ok, really.