I'm rolling the dough in the kitchen, listening to Pandora as my life moves around me: my husband talking on the phone to a colleague in the other room; the boys playing video games; my daughter's dress-up heels clomping against the floor as she pushes her mini grocery cart down the hallway. I hear all of this and don't hear it. I'm stretching and rolling the dough, hands bathed in flour, listening to the music. The tomato sauce is cooling on the stove-top. It's Friday and it's Pizza Night.
Fridays have changed.
Every now and then I have an urge to flee. To un-tether. Bust out. Not for good, but for a moment. To travel back to a Friday night when I was a girl, a woman, swiping my path through the world to all the lavish noise of freedom.
I have loved my life. I loved that life. But here's the odd and fantastic truth: It's Friday, I'm in my kitchen, and there is no other place more wildly wonderful than right here.
As a woman, this is the course traveled. We throw ourselves out there, trying to grab what life places before us -- the things desired and the returning hope to be desired -- and we arrive, if all goes incredibly well, with this: