Labels, neighbors, tomatoes, n'at (or SL rambles on and on and on and on...)

There are days where I am label conscious. (You too?)

I fret that Blogger X and Blogger Y don't have me on their blogroll (when there are tons of folks that are still not on mine).* Why isn't Blogger A and Blogger Z commenting? It's always great to discover I'm not the only one that has these thoughts...

I count pregnant women (today I discovered two more--so the count is up to 13!). It bothers me that I'm 35 and haven't started on my family. I hear stories about women who are "older" and so it's really important to get pregnant now and think, GAH, will I be like that too? I want three, but as I woke up this morning, I thought, I don't care if they each have purple, green and yellow hair. I do not want my biology to be my destiny. (Someone remind me of this every once and awhile, please!)

And then (sometimes the same day) I think, WHO CARES?? Our blood is all red. We all cry when we're sad, we all get rejected, we all laugh. We are all someone's daughter, someone's son. So what if I'm never a grandma (as the tear starts at the corner of my eye contemplating that...) There are kids that will always remember that I'm Sarah Louise and that I will read them books or take them for ice cream...

There are some women who will never know that I keep myself well-heeled in J. Jill and Ann Taylor Loft by shopping at Goodwill. There are some women who will never know I'm a half year from turning 36. (I love it when men think I'm under 28!)

Then there are the friends who squeal when I say, I got them at Goodwill...

While standing in line at Tazza, the woman ahead of me was wearing an eyelet blouse, white earrings, and Dolce & Gabana sunglasses. I often will compliment someone on their earrings to start a conversation while in line. But she was unapproachable.

Now, it is possible that she is the nicest person, she just puts on her New York face when she's out. (New Yorkers have a way of not looking at each other when they walk the sidewalks.)

I'm nowhere near to a three floor house, three bouncing boys, a ten year marriage. At 35, I'm still as free as the 25 year olds I often have coffee with.

Can you sense I'm trying to say something but I can't get it out?

Maybe I'm just trying to say (again and again, as I attempt to live every day) is that I'm glad.
Glad that I have an eye for fashion at $5. Glad that I can afford to eat out three times a week (even if it means picking something for lunch that will mete leftovers for dinner). Glad that I can go home and sleep forever. (Darn that sunshine that woke me up at 7 am, though!)

Last week I lived through a storm. It was a tempest in a teapot and mostly my own insecurities playing out on my own inner canvas. But it's Sunday again, my day for whatever, and as I sit here, my wet hair dripping down my neck, I think, I will live through worse. I have lived through worse.

So, I'm getting ready to assemble my ingredients for Sarah Louise's Strata, I think, ahhhh. It's the first day of a new week, and all my worries about my girlfriends and the men in (or out) of my life don't matter. Just keep the conversation going.

Over and out. I'll catch ya on the flip side. I have no predictions about blogging (or life) this week.

Except, remind me that I need to post about The Joy of Doing things Badly.

_______________________________________________________________
*and what's up with that anyway? Is the blogroll the new status symbol of "these are MY friends"?