To Sal, a place doesn’t feel like home unless it contains a card table with a half-done jigsaw puzzle on it. p 41
Eating Grape-nuts for breakfast in the morning as your preferred meal. Warm is better, sprinkled with raisins. And no added sugar. Strangely appealing.
Dedicating a section of the diningroom table to the latest jigsaw puzzle.
Becoming slightly obsessed with aforementioned puzzle and begin pricing roll-up mats so that you can access all of the table if you have someone over for a meal.
Getting excited when you let yourself browse in an amazing toy store and make the discovery that someone has actually manufactured a series of separate trays that can be used for sorting all the puzzle pieces.
Letting your frugal side take over by passing up the store bought trays and instead pulling out all those black microwave trays you’ve saved over the years. Then quietly rejoicing that they finally have a purpose.
Finally coming to terms with the fact that all that wrapping paper you saved in hopes of “putting it on a smaller present” actually isn’t going to happen. Pitching the paper to make more room in the basement and the attic.
Explaining to your college-aged son that, yes, his LEGOs can go in the attic, at least some of them. The scarves are now in those plastic drawers and are used on a daily basis, as opposed to the Bionicle pieces which will most likely not see active play for another decade or so.
Preferring to stay in rather than go out. Dreaming of reading in bed. Hoping that the scarves in those plastic drawers can eventually find a home in a wooden dresser. But the dresser won’t fit in the bedroom until the queen-sized box spring given by a friend is actually put to use. Which won’t really happen until you buy a new mattress.
And buying the mattress is no longer at the top of the list, because the new oil tank you found out—soon after you bought the house—needed to be replaced went to the number one position, as Rob Gordon in High Fidelity would say– “With a bullet.”
Realizing that it’s been years since you watched High Fidelity, another story of a grown up in the making.
Contemplating how the transformation happens and is it truly necessary? What separates this year’s you from last year’s?
It might be home ownership. That’s the crux of it all, the tipping point from girl to woman. No, scratch that, being an adult means you can still be called a girl if that’s what you prefer.
And I do. I want to keep that moniker as I think it suits me.
Maybe the sign of being a grown-up is knowing that when things are bad, it’s only temporary. Colds don’t last nor do reading slumps or writer’s block. We get through it. Bit by bit, piece by piece.