Something has happened. Now that I have a new car I’m listening to First Wave. I’m happily stuck in traffic bopping along to Adam and the Ants, New Order, Depeche Mode, UB40 and more. When you combine the music of my middle school with the friends that facebook offers, I can’t help but find myself lost in reverie, romanticizing the awkward years of middle school.
I remember dancing alone to Madonna’s Holiday in the months leading up to my Bat Mitzvah. I remember praying for pimples to disappear, I was sure G-d could and would help with that. I remember wearing parachute pants over long underwear and jelly shoes that our mothers schlepped downtown to purchase for us.
I also distinctly remember being asked, “what exactly are you?” When I’d wear my beloved creepers, dye strands of hair purple, or date the poor boy from Torrance.
I would whisper, “me, I guess”, because I wasn’t a mod, or a new waver, I couldn’t be a punk and preppy was attractive, but it was a phase that had passed.
Now I’m a forty year old woman who can’t answer a simple question. “What do you do for a living?”
I typically reply, “I’m a housewife.” Because this still seems like a hobby.
Once in a blue moon I’ll say, “I’m a mommy blogger”, and then when people are looking for my third eye or hunchback, I find myself tripping over my own words in an attempt to make sure that they understand that I’m not like them. Then I feel bad, because Mommy Bloggers aren’t all bad, but I do understand the disdain.
I’m a blogger I suppose, I’m a mom and a blogger and I’m pretty passionate about food, and very passionate about the planet.
I’m a chick with a really great internet connection, and a limited filter. What exactly are you?