Little Girl Thoughts in a Grown Woman’s Head
I don’t live here.
In my reality, home is a field of flowers,
And I drink buttermilk from buttercups all day long.
Other women in my station (married with kids in school and a job) seem to have it so together. They have a certain veneer about them that I can't seem to mirror.
They are all 10 years older than me, pulling into the parking space next to me in their SUV's. Usually
There are moments when I feel jealous of their organized appearances, and I wonder if their laundry is piled up at home, or if their husband complains about their cooking and the clothes they buy for the kids.
Odd though, I wouldn't trade myself in for one of them. I don't mind my crazy that much, so I read instead of watching American Idol. I bang around on my computer hoping to learn something. I'm not judging them, just observing. They make good character studies.
After watching the parade of purses go by, the cloth patchy patch purses, the "named after some lady" purses, the hobo's and Coaches, I decided to make a statement by making my own. It took three nights, but I made myself a neat lined purse. It's red denim, with red and white fabric sewn "wrinkle style" across the front, with a hand stitched basted lip. One of the gals at work said she liked it, and I told her I made it. She said, "Are you one of those women who can do anything?" I replied "I am one of those women who will try to do anything."
I guess life is sort of like that. We are what we are willing to try.