Quesadillas and Mix Tapes

Tonight I made cheese quesadillas instead of my usual bowl of cereal for dinner.  To at least two of you, this doesn’t seem like a major shake up from my typical “home alone” routine.  In fact, I think I talked about cheese quesadillas on Facebook quite extensively last fall.  These kicks come in phases.

I need to eat veggies.  I’m aware.  I promise, I keep it balanced.

Most of the time.

I’m fully aware that I started a blog post talking about my very  uneventful dinner.  You can judge me, just know, though, that I’m judging you in return and I’m far more judgmental that you might expect.

I had a plan for this!  I was going to go into quite the prose about what I do with my free time when Rocky is at work (he’s always at work when I’m at home for those of you keeping score).  I’ve been spending a lot of time cleaning and organizing as part of Apartment Therapy’s January Cure.  I started the month out with a bang talking about that.  I’ve been making a small list of projects that need attention, nothing too daunting.  I took some time out a week or so ago to drink wine and play games with some friends (we played a lot of games… and we drank a lot of wine).  I’ve played the bassoon and spun some yarn.

Tonight, however, I turned away from the productive and turned to something for my soul (soul care… is that what those trendy blogger types are calling it these days?).  I opened up Spotify and started listening to music.  Yes, it’s just like you are picturing it, a cheese quesadilla wedge in one hand and my laptop balanced on my lap and being managed by the hand free of a sad excuse for Mexican food.

I listened to new music.

Old music.

Music that took me back 5 years and music that took me back 15.

That seems to be my theme for the past few days, reminisce.  In case you missed the influx of the best pictures ever taken during the 90s that I posted over on Facebook, I went through a large tote that I’ve been hauling around with me since my mother passed away.  It contained a few baby dolls, some of my baby clothes, baby dishes (not sure what good those will do me – I’m not really chomping at the bit to enter the world of motherhood), papers, art projects, and photos.  I haven’t really dug through the box since bringing it home almost 5 years ago, but this weekend I went through each and every item.

Most memories were good.  Some made me want to kill all the cute precious things in the world.  But all were memories good or bad.  I was taken back to a time when I didn’t quite get along with my eyebrows as well as I do now.  Taken back to a time when I would stay out way too late with friends and hope and pray I could sneak in the side door without my mom catching me (never worked out that well).  Taken back to a time when hand holding sustained me for WEEKS at a time.  This was the time of small folded notes being passed to best friends, crushes and band buddies.  We were innocent to the world but yet, not quite as angelic as I’m hoping my parents thought we were.

I mean, my mom wasn’t on to me was she?  Just because you say you’re going to the park with friends doesn’t mean she knew I was really going with one friend to kissy face at the top of the slide?  She didn’t know that did she?  DID SHE?

It was so simple then.

It was so wonderful then.

No one had died at a too young age yet.  No one was broken up with.  Bills were non-existent and car troubles were fixed by my step-dad.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking back on those years since going through the box.  It’s led me to think about this concept of “ghost life” again.  I believe I’ve talked about this before… at least, I think I did.  It’s basically where you’d be if you took a certain path very different than the one you took (or maybe not so different).  I’m always amazed when I think about this.  I don’t think about it longingly, but rather with fascination  We so easily change the course of our life with a simple hello.  I’m just amazed at the Choose Your Own Adventure that lies ahead of us on a daily basis.  There is no way that 18 year old in the pictures had any idea where she would be at 34.

I’m so happy things turned out as they did.

I’m so happy I moved to Fayetteville on a last minute whim and went to carve pumpkins with that tall guy that worked in the facilities department at Walton Arts Center.  I’m so very glad the box of memories I’m building now is bursting at the seams with good ones.

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