Freezing My Eggs

Don't worry, this hasn't turned into one of those blogs that reflects constantly on the author's waning procreative abilities. I'm not going to obsess and research any and all means of extending my fertility into my 60's. In fact, I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than contemplate motherhood right now, thank you very much.

The real topic for this post is nostalgia vs. the real. It is Easter, my friends, and as a child in the Southwest, I would have been prancing around the front yard of my house in a cute little sundress carrying a basket full of plastic grass, looking for eggs. My parents, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, would have been looking on fondly from the porch, snapping pictures. The lawn underfoot would be slightly damp from dew, but it would feel good on my little feet because it would be warm outside.

I bring you this update NOT because I'm obsessed with my childhood, nor what people wore on holidays. Instead, I pay particular attention to detail above because memories like that are the only form of sanity I have to hold on to when it's SNOWING OUTSIDE. You heard me. Easter--April 8--and snow. Horizontal snow, no less.

Maybe I shouldn't be so worried about what to wear while I'm teaching this summer? Apparently, I'll be able to keep my sweaters and wool pants in the rotation.