spring cleaning, cowgirls, and tequila as a hobby

It’s almost May and I’m in full spring cleaning/getting rid of shit I don’t need mode.

Saturday night involved me, a glass of wine, and the oh-so-familiar game of, “don’t pretend this skirt will ever fit again because you’re a grown ass woman and that shit could barely fit a twelve year old so you might as well sack up and put it in the Salvation Army pile.”

It was a whirlwind of ill-fitting clothing, but in the middle of it I found a small folder of random stuff from my childhood.  Mostly early school work, photos, and drawings.  Oh, and this story:

When I grow up I will either be a teacher or a dentist or maybe even an artist. I think I might even be one of those people on the news or an actress or maybe even a cancan dancer or an ice skater.

In my spare time I will collect stamps.

The end.

On one hand, this seriously makes me miss being a little kid.  I mean, how great would it be to just yell, “THE END” whenever you were finished dealing with someone’s bullshit?  And the wild career aspirations!  There I was, still relying on that ridiculously wide-ruled penmanship instruction paper, and yet I was going to be an ice skating news anchor who moonlighted as an actress.

But on the other hand, I’m all, “Little Nicole, you can barely form your own letters, how do you know what cancan dancing is?  The garters!  The lifting of the skirt!  What are you, five?  HOW SLUTTY ARE YOU??”

I was clearly leaving my options open though, weighing cancan dancing against the many alternatives, such as being a cowgirl.  But, from the looks of it, the cowgirl plan wasn’t going too well.  Maybe my horse was late?  Maybe I was trying to figure out how to balance a future of being an artist with an inability to get past stick figures and finger painting?  Maybe I was frustrated that somebody had had the audacity to pin an orange star to my chest when CLEARLY, orange didn’t match my outfit.  Or maybe I was just terrified that adulthood had nothing better to offer me than the pastime of collecting stamps.

Man, I wish I could go back and assure my younger self that there was no need to worry, because email was coming and there wouldn’t be any stamps to collect.  Oh, and that even if there were, growups are way too busy with hobbies like sex and tequila to peel shit off envelopes and stick it into albums.

Posted in: day to day shenanigans