Thanks Deb. I needed to hear that. I've been having serious identity issues lately about myself and about my writing in particular. Totally unlike me.

Am I too young to be having a midlife crisis? Could it be the whole turning thirty thing?

Kristin, the mid to late twenties are the second of the Big Three crises: it's one reason why teenagers have such a high suicide rate, but the last I looked, late twenties wasn't that far behind. I actually was fine in my late twenties, but I wasn't typical of the syndrome; I'd packed so much into the first quarter century that, experientially, I might as well have been fifty by then.

So frustrated...wrote a lot this whole week, but it's like I can picture what I want to say and I'm not saying it yet. Damn it.

Hey, Brynn! I don't know how we missed each other either, esp. since reading back over the thread I see you mentioned the U of W a few times. I must've assumed you were in Washington state. We should definitely get together for lunch - send an email to my profile addy and we'll make plans to hook up. (Kids optional.)

Still mulling over a passage of time drabble, hopefully to be posted tomorrow.

Kristin, the mid to late twenties are the second of the Big Three crises: it's one reason why teenagers have such a high suicide rate, but the last I looked, late twenties wasn't that far behind.

True. I'm just irritated because I've done that already. 28 was a big crisis for me, relationship and career-wise. Got over that, got better. Now it's just shy of 30. Argh.

Anyway. Back to writing.

Holiday Photos

We sit on the couch, grinning uselessly. Our eyes are open, but we cannot see what you can, our future.

Here we sit, all four of us, she and I are children still. We cannot see that next year there will be two more figures on the couch and we will be adults.

Here we sit, all six of us. We do not know that after struggles, next year there will be seven, one very small.

Here we sit, all seven of us. No way to tell there will be eight. Her family, four, like ours when we were children.

Passage of Time drabble:

You were 16 when you met him. Almost immediately you knew that you had met your match. He was the first person (though by no means the last) to make you feel ignorant, despite your 4.0 GPA.

You loved him for 5 years. Five long years in which you never once believed yourself to be his intellectual equal. Five long years in which you were willing to make yourself into whoever he wanted you to be, just to get him to love you back.

You've been considered an adult, chronologically, for 15 years now. He's married, and you're a vastly different person than you were so long ago.

He walks in the room and you open your mouth to speak, only to stammer and stumble through something that isn't quite what you had intended to say.

You are 16 again.

Drabble:

Thirty years sure have changed the old wooden house that I lived in when I was in elementary school. Now it is the Psychology Lab building of Davidson College.

Outside, there is a wheelchair ramp leading from the driveway to the kitchen door. Inside, the living room has a new wall down the middle, dividing the reception area from the interview room. The bedrooms are now professors' offices. The laundry room is filled with shelves of office supplies. My old room is filled with a line of tables sporting half a dozen computer work stations.

And they have air conditioning!

Fifteen Years

In my imagination, my parents are eternally as they were when I left for college: a couple in their 50’s, my mother plump, silver-haired, and cheerful, my father full of that restless energy that runs so strongly in our family. What’s left of his hair is more strawberry blond than gray.

Fifteen years have passed. Now when I go home I’m shocked. My mother’s hair is white, and she hates and fears every technological advance, every change in the mores of the society she once understood. And my father is frail, stooped, marked by brushes with death. I won’t have them for long. I feel like I’ve already lost them.

Tep, a suggestion for a future theme: first reactions.