teenage dream.

A few summers ago I remarked to myself that I was quickly turning into an 80 year old woman. I was pretty happy with this shift, to be honest. I was in an Old Soul kind of phase of life, newly thirty and living in the town I thought I'd call home for the rest of my life (this blog is often in danger of becoming a Limestone City fan fiction forum). I was content in an inertia comprised of professional apathy, the best friends and neighbours in the universe, and Bob Dylan records. I spent the summer of 2010 whiling away the days and nights eating local tomatoes and writing blog posts about Jonathan Torrens and exploring the multitude of swimming holes in Frontenac County. Every weekend I'd drive out to Tom's house and put up the tent and spend a few days surviving on homemade sangria and campfire coffee. It was a pretty sweet set-up. It was the spiritual equivalent of curling up in your armchair with your knitting. Yeah, I thought to myself, I'll ride this one out for a few more decades.

Life, of course, happened. The events of the following six months pulled me out of my octogenarian reverie, spun me around in circles a few times, then spat me out back in my hometown. It's taken awhile, but I can honestly say that Hamilton finally feels a little more like home these days. Maybe it's the comfort of being home at the Canada Street cottage for a full year now, the sun on my porch and the tomatoes in my own garden. Or maybe it's the manner in which I have regressed in completely the opposite direction and am now turning back into the 18 year old version of myself. Here's the incontrovertible evidence:

1. I'm back on the pill, and just like the first time, my mom has a lot of questions about it.

2. On random weeknights my best friend gets dropped off at my house by her mom, and we sit in the backyard discussing the various ways in which we intend to change the world while also hoping we can score a good stash for the cottage.

3. The only album I want to listen to is Exile in Guyville by Liz Phair.



3a. I may also allow for One Chord To Another by Sloan.



3a(i). I still remember the day One Chord came out. My best friend Heather had an afternoon spare period and drove down to Dr. Disc to buy it. She came back to school and stood outside the door of my Society: Challenge and Change class and held up the album and waved it around like a beacon and my dorky, Andrew Scott-lovin' heart nearly smashed into pieces. Man, I thought, this is going to be a GREAT SUMMER.

There's a guy who's been around a lot lately who often tells me he thinks nostalgia is dangerous. He's not one for living in the past, I guess; he's someone who keeps swimming. I don't mind moving forward, but I'm not going to lie: I love to look backward too. I love nostalgia. It makes me feel connected to all the people I've known, all the different versions of myself I've been. Old before her time; living fast, dying young; part of this large family.