I fall into the demographic that HBO makes hit television shows about…
I’m single, thirty-something, relatively self-actualized and at the center of my universe right now are my friends—the friends who have become family and who are there no matter what. No matter how many times I willingly subject myself to heartache while they look on protectively. No matter how many times I change jobs and they live through the honeymoon phase and the seven year itch. No matter how many times I mistake cayenne for paprika and serve up a steaming hot paella so spicy it singes our taste buds.
My earlier years were a quest for my one overriding need: stability. In my twenties, I thought that stability was to be found in one man. My thirties have been an opportunity to learn that one man may not be the panacea of stability that fairy tales taught the child-me to believe. My thirties have been an opportunity to learn that men may come and go, but my friends are the sun around which my world orbits.
Last week, I came home to a shock. My roommate (same demographics) standing by the back door of our home (affectionately known as the Little Green House) in an uncharacteristically highly emotional state… half laughing, half crying and making a noise that might be described as wailing. She had gone into the backyard to do a chore and discovered a dead turtle.
Yes, a dead turtle. ……
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