When I was a kid, every day seemed like an adventure. At least, that's how I imagine it was. Truth is, I really don't have a lot of memories from when I was little. Oh sure, a few events are seared into my memory (particularly a nasty meeting between my left knee and a sharp chain link fence), but on the whole? I can't willingly recall the average temperature of my day-to-day existence.
I'm told I was quite the curious little monkey. Started reading when I was four. Made up poetry about vegetables (a post best left for another day, trust me). Adored my pink teddy bear. Beyond that, I don't remember a whole lot of detail.
Except this jungle gym. I remember it like it was yesterday: the shape of a rocket ship, it had a steering wheel mounted at one end, and whenever my mom brought me to this park I'd make a beeline for it and climb it for hours, pretending to steer myself around the stars.
I guess I haven't strayed too far from my beginnings, considering I read and write for a living (and have a slight obsession with girly accessories) but finding adventures is getting harder and harder. Life is just not as carefree as it was 30 years ago. Career. Mortgage. RESPONSIBILITY. Yikes.
I think it's time for another trip in a big rocket ship.
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