Writer's Workshop: A Snapshot of My Life.

This week, Mama Kat asked us to give the us of five years ago a snapshot of our current lives. Here’s my take on it.

Five years ago, I was living in a drafty townhouse in Cincinnati, slogging through slushy puddles as icy rain poured down from the sky to a job, which, although I’d only started four months before, was already beginning to seem like a Huge Mistake.

My house in Michigan still hadn’t sold. My 401k money was almost gone. My husband, who had just joined me there, had found a job, but it was in retail, meaning he was gone most nights and weekends. I was alone, lonely and feeling sorry for myself.

I was desperate for hope, but positive that I was deserving of none.

So if the Me of Now had appeared before the Me of Then and told her that in five years I’d be living a life that made me happy, she would have scoffed at me. She would have asked me if I was smoking something. Then, rolling her eyes, she would have asked for proof.

So I’d have to pull out a whole wad of pictures. Not just one, because the Me of Then? She knew about Photoshop.

First I’d have to show her my house. Not to brag, but because that girl was living in a place so small, her dresser only fit in the living room. Her kitchen had about three inches of counter space. Her bathroom was so tiny, she could pee while washing her hair. And her yard? Was about six feet wide.

So to show her that five years later she’d have a house with both a living room and a family room, three whole toilets (you have never known desperation until there are two people in a house with diarrhea and only one toilet), a fireplace and even a walk-in closet, would have rocked her world.

Then I’d have to show her some video clips of the office. One of her cackling with an art director over an assignment (back then, her partner made her want to stab things). Another of the Great Toilet Paper Discussion. And a third of a client actually praising her work.

By this time, she’d be smiling a little, but still skeptical. So I’d pull out the Big Guns. The Secret Weapon. The Pictures of Tori.

I’d show her a picture of her scrunched up, screaming face when she was freshly hatched.

I’d show her the pictures of her first smile. The first time she stuck out her tongue. The first time she sat up. Of Halloween, and Thanksgiving. Of her sleeping with her daddy and pulling her mommy’s hair. By the time I showed her this one:

She’d be grinning from ear to ear, hope restored once more. And my job? Would be done.

Now head on over to Mama Kat’s and check out the other entries!

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