Predictions

6:51 a.m.

(I feel so annoyed I'm going to have to switch to the "new blogger.") (Change is always bad!)

Work has been sort of...off this week. Mostly because someone's dog is dying (a very very very very old dog that can't even squat by itself to poop anymore), so the schedule is out of whack. A while back Justin convinced me, after much prodding, to take the day off tomorrow. So we could go out of town for my birthday and eat lunch somewhere other than the three restaurants that haven't made me sick in this town. (Wait. We're down to two, I think. I probably shouldn't count Arby's.) And so I could go to Target, since, you know. I miss Target. And birthdays should involve Target. Yesterday I offered to go ahead and work so the dog owner could stay home, since they'll probably put the dog down this afternoon. And she'll be sad. But she refused, because she said she wanted to keep busy. And she meant it. So. Still off tomorrow. I've been pretty excited about going to Target and eating somewhere different, and have been saving my favorite pants to wear. (Isn't that pathetic?) It's been beautiful and warm and sunny all week, and today it will be in the upper forties and sunny. Tomorrow they are calling for snow and possibly thunder. Whatever that means. I don't like driving over the pass in snow. But we'll see. Perhaps Target will still happen.

That paragraph was very choppy and convoluted.

The point was, Wyoming doesn't really want me to leave this town ever, for any reason.

The tumbleweeds have been plotting.

That's what I was saying.

Tomorrow I turn 26. I had a discussion yesterday about whether 26 is mid twenties or late twenties. He said late. I said, no, it should go: early twenties: 20-23 (although I don't even think 20 should count as "twenties," do you?), mid twenties: 24-26, late twenties: 27-29. And that it should all be based around 25. He said that seemed logical, but people would still call it late twenties.

This is officially the most boring post I've ever written.

I should have let the damn tumbleweeds write it.

So!

Twenty-six!

I remember in high school, my best friend and I would make ridiculous life schedules, which involved, of course, moving somewhere glamorous like New York and becoming Famous or at least a Completely Ambitious and Successful Professional of Some Kind. It was all vague. I thought it would involve being cut-throat and hard, either way. Hard. I figured I would never want to get married or have kids, and would frequently declare, "I WILL NEVER HAVE KIDS." She would laugh and laugh and say, "I bet you'll have, like, six. I know you." And I would get indignant and redirect her attention to the Fame. To the being hard. Cut-throat Successful Famous Women do not have time for relationships and children.

DUH.

I totally knew everything when I was 15, didn't you?

I remember one afternoon I conceded, annoyed, and said when I was 26, if it would happen, which it totally wouldn't because I would be too busy with my important career, I would get married. And it would have to be someone I met in college or after, because there was NO ONE in that town for me, NO ONE. But no marriage until I was 26. And if I had kids it would have to be around 27 or 28 or 29, because if I was going to do it, which I totally WAS CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO, RACHEL, I would want to start before I was 30.

It's amusing that I've remembered that conversation, the concession to our life predictions. The little postscript I thought would never happen. Life took me in completely different directions, the path was lost for a while, but I'm back, I'm myself. And that little paragraph is happening. She knew me better than I knew myself.

Sometimes.

I mean. Normally I'm a total enigma. I swear.

(On a side note, one thing neither one of us planned was the fact that I would be going gray at 26. Or at 24. No one predicted that I would have quite the gray streak. Or "silver." Let's call it silver. Maybe if I give up and say I'm late twenties, the streak won't seem so wrong. Maybe.)

Twenty-six!

Cross your fingers we don't have too much thunder-snow.

Kisses,
black sheep