It's the bleak middle of February. Last weekend my gas oven emitted a fiery whooosh, singeing my eyelashes half off and frying parts of my hairline. Tuesday I came down with what I think is my third full-blown cold of the winter. I'm stressed and panicked about my current writing project as I haven't been about any project in a long time. And yep: today I turn thirty-five.
But look! Here I am at age three, sun-tanned and bearing flowers:
Lemme tell you something about that photo. It may be the only photo to have captured me in the flower-girl getup I wore for my uncle's wedding. I'm not in any of the official wedding photos, and probably not in any of the unofficial ones, either. Because I did not actually participate in the wedding.
Reason one is that I got scared when I saw all the people in the church, and refused to go down the aisle. But reason two is that my uncle's wedding occurred during a several-month window during which I had decided that I was a frog.
I'd declared myself to be various other animals at various times, usually just for an afternoon or a day or two. But I really liked being a frog, and I was a frog for a long time. When I was feeling contrary, I'd ribbit back when people spoke to me. I'd refuse to walk, and hop around on all fours. And at my uncle's wedding, in addition to refusing to walk down the aisle, I hid in the bushes during the photo sessions, insisting that frogs didn't do that.
So, yeah: it's been kind of a crummy week. But at least I'm not still a frog.