It dawned on me, as I labored away this past weekend - trying to get my tomatoes planted - that I am shallow. I read gardening posts about plants chosen through careful and thorough research; making sure that money is well and wisely spent on plants suited to flourish in the correct Zone and all. I, however, choose my plants strictly on how their name strikes me at the time. Mountain Magic, Big Mama, Black Krim, Bloody Butcher. I choose my wine the same way - by label. If there's poultry or livestock on it, it's in my basket. It may taste like pelican piss, but oh, that label!
As to regression. During the usual hysteria of trying to transform from barn slob to reasonable working person this morning, I lost precious moments as I went through the gamut of skirts (garb strange enough on my person that it causes the hair on Lovey's back to stand straight up). I started with a knee length number, but realized it accentuated the large skinned patch on my knee. I switched to a below-the-knee version, but realized I had a large, crusty scratch on my upper shin. I swished out of the house with an ankle-length skirt in hippie tie-dye. What the heck, the clowns are still in session and no one will notice. It was like rocketing back in time to when I was 8 and continually sported bruises, scrapes and cuts.
I shudder to think what comes next.