The latest edition of Southern Living arrived in my mailbox today. The cover was adorned with a gorgeous Thanksgiving spread; inside were testimonials of the life I should be leading back in my homeland. Married women, dressed in their Sunday best even though it’s only Tuesday, smile alongside their delicate mantle displays and open-planned kitchens. In another room, two perfectly groomed children do whatever perfectly groomed children do. Upstairs, The Catch watches football.
I probably should have worked a little harder to earn that life. To land The Catch and push out two perfectly groomed children. I should have a smaller waist and bigger diamonds in my life. My mother should live down the street—close enough to babysit but far away enough so as not to annoy The Catch. But I daydreamed through high school, and I focused more on planning for a career than planning for a wedding all through my college years.
So, this is the life I lead instead. In lieu of breezy porches gracefully extending from brick homes, I live in apartments without central heat or air. I’ve forgone streets lined with scrappy pine trees always dripping sap and chosen manicured streets accented with sycamores and coral trees. The air smells more of sage and that powdery sigh roses let out than of barbeques and freshly cut grass. The men here are too busy dating models to worry about finding a mother for an heir. This is the life I lead. And while it’s not gracing any slick magazine covers in my mailbox, this life is all mine.
Image found here. It's a really good issue with some very delish recipes.
