…and I was nineteen years old. That’s me, in the overalls and black sweater, pretending to play the trombone. I don’t remember whose trombone it was, or who was behind the camera. The girl next to me, Gina, is still a close friend. We were in one of the practice rooms in the music hall at Grace University, where I goofed off way more than I ever practiced anything.
I wonder what that nineteen year old girl would think if my thirty-five year old self walked into that room? She probably wouldn’t believe that I chose not to continue pursuing music. That had been my passion since I started playing piano at four. She’d probably laugh double hard at the notion of being a writer. Writing? Like, sitting at a desk for hours and hours in silence? Writing? It would have seemed very boring and very far-fetched to her. So would the idea of having four kids – and loving it. The married-to-the-Hubster-for-fifteen-years thing would have probably blown her away the most. Not only was I a closet commitmentphobe who was secretly terrified of the idea of matrimony, but I knew the Hubster back then. Knew him, and didn’t like him. The feeling was mutual. I thought he was stuck-up; he thought I was a spoiled brat. We were both right.
My goodness, how things change. That thought makes me smile.
I want to see your throwbacks! Hashtag ’em on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and if you think of it, tag me, and I’ll pop by and chat.