I’m not sure when the transformation occurred, so it must have happened slowly. But a few weeks ago, when I went to Vegas to run in the Rock ‘n Roll Marathon, my friends decided I was an athlete. I’m not.
I’ve been a high school English teacher for so long that you’d think I had the letter writing gig down to a science. You know, finding ways to turn a lazy, obnoxious, entitled kid into a “witty future leader, brimming with possibilities.”
I’m kind of over the whole don’t look at a rainbow thing. In fact, I have trouble believing that God would give us something so beautiful and awe inspiring in order for us to look away.
Somewhere between closing the metaphorical door of any traumatic situation and getting sucked into the constant vortex of pain and victimhood, there’s a middle place of relative contentment. Of just understanding that it is what it is.
As far as the Literary Mother of the Year awards go, Mrs. Weasley became a contender from the moment she helped Harry Potter get onto Platform 9 ¾ in the first book.
Facebook just shared some memories with me today. Not that I needed Facebook to tell me where I was two years ago and what my friends were tagging me in on their status updates that day.