I am slowly and surely, at the tender age of 41, realizing I am never going to be that woman. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be that woman. I buy books in an attempt to magically transform into this mythical creature. You know who I am talking about. She is the same woman we all want to be. The woman we think we are not. The woman who has everything we think we want. And that is fine. I only regret spending so much time trying to obtain her wardrobe, adopt her hobbies and praying I can magically morph into her size perfect frame, hip bones be damned.
So, please, do join me. Part of this blog is to, perhaps, in a roundabout manner, figure out the woman I am. I once told a psychic… yes, I said psychic. Don’t judge. I was on vacation in New Orleans. I think visiting a psychic is a required by law in the Big Easy, along with having the mandatory cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe Du Monde and attending a music festival. Anyway, I shared with the psychic my one wish was that I wanted all of my nieces to become the women they were meant to be. If I want them to get there, I am going to have to get cracking on figuring out the woman I am meant to be.
So, in the coming months, while I post what I find interesting and not what I think others might find interesting. While I go through every single book purchased with the mistaken notion that this could crack the code. While I revel in the crafty and in its resulting cuteness unashamed, do join me. Oh, this could get messy.