Fall. Autumn. The season of pumpkin spice and knitted throws. Unnecessary Target runs. Crisp air. Apple pie candles.
Basically, it’s when we lose our mother-loving MINDS over a season’s arrival (Christmas soon to follow).
What is it about fall? The season strikes and we must, WE MUST, consume something pumpkin. We must lower our AC and replace all home décor with something orange. We’re whisked into a frenzy, caught in the eye of the tornado, surrounded by swirling leaves and frothy spiced lattes. We’re floating. Our fir-trimmed UGGs hover above ground. Nothing else exists except fall.
Boys are annoying. This isn’t the world’s best kept secret. We all know this.
(My apologies, male readership.)
Boys are especially annoying when they’re boys we have a crush on. And boys are even MORE annoying when we: 1.) Have a crush on them, 2.) We’re texting them—and 3.) They don’t. Text. Back.
WHY boys do this—WHY they insist on “being distracted”/”doing chores”/”helping old ladies cross the street” when they could be having a fantastic conversation with miraculous, God’s-gift-to-earth creatures like you and me, is beyond my comprehension. Why, boys? WHY.
We all know that women are goddesses. We possess this quality of grace and sophistication, loveliness and wonder. We smell like the color pink. We’re adorable. We have the cutest laugh. We are spunky and lovable.
My cat, Cova, is clearly female.
As we’ve grown accustomed to our shared living space, Cova has shown all the signs that she is a lady—unapologetically so, as all ladies do.
“So, Rebekah, what are you doing later?” Daniel asks me.
The clock on my phone reads 9:45pm. I squint at Daniel like he’s lost his mind. “What do you mean later?”
I blink three times, slowly. I planned on scurrying home and brewing a fresh mug of chamomile. I planned on stretching out the tendonitis in my wrists and wishing the cat sweet dreams. I planned on tidying my shoes and checking the status of my teeth. I planned on saying my prayers.
This was about the point I realized: I am a twenty-something grandma.
It started young, this special gift of mine. There are always those popular “Rebekah stories” that surface whilst entertaining guests over dinner, and the one about me wrecking my dad’s classic car is definitely at the top.