Feeling Sentimental

I was driving home from work today, sweaty from my workout and the desert sun. (I often forget I live in the desert. It doesn't feel like it when I'm surrounded by bustling cars and our green farm field. The only reminder is the 90 degree afternoon.) As I rolled down the big truck road to skip busy Main Street, I thought about how different I am. I always think about how different my life is, but sometimes I think about how different I am inside of it.

I'm rough around the edges, jaded now. I'm not naive like I used to be, hopeful, innocent, giving. I get angry! I overreact. I find fault in the world and fear in myself. I used to be so loving, soft, sweet.

I used to be so sentimental.

I used to write blog posts every day about how my nanny babies picked me daisies, how Moose tried to steal my boyfriends for full-time frisbee hurlers. Everything was romantic.

... And everything still is. In every era of my life, I have stolen a second to every day to think, this right now is the dream. This life is the dream, and I'm going to miss it one day."

In my displaced senior year when I lived with my aunty after our housefire, I wrote about my twenty minute drive to school, how I'd miss the commute, the backroad to get to Springville, the love spell smell of Heather's candles when I'd get home, how we'd dance in the kitchen at midnight, how we'd sneak into the hot tub naked and look out over the whole valley. I'd miss her antique fairies all over the house. I'd miss hearing Cigarettes After Sex play from the third floor as I fell asleep. I already missed my old flower pot bedroom with the terracotta walls, my two minute drive to school, the trail right outside my house that Moose and I took to the creek, looking out my window and seeing a big P on the mountain. I missed Payson Walmart and running into people at the grocery store. I missed everything about everywhere and everything I'd loved before that moment, and I knew I'd miss that moment just the same.

My heart yanks at me when I drive past my first college apartment. I miss the ugly cabinets, the 18 degree walk to school in the winter, having Rach and Kylie right across the courtyard. That era feels like a fever dream, too good to be true, but it was.

So was the summer when I met Tristan: my morning coffee on the kitchen couch, my bike rides to and from the boujie country club gym, singing to myself as I rode through sprinklers to cool off from the heat, passing the same front yard gardens that I did every day, hopping off to pet that sweet, old dog at the red brick house. I'd always hum Call Me When You Land or Utah by Brotherkenzie. When I'd get to work, I'd forget to stop, and Tristan would ask me what I was singing. We'd fall into deep conversations together. I'd catch myself looking at him a little too long. When he'd leave, my heart would melt about it. I'd miss him. I'd get kind of grumpy. I'd turn to Dawson and say, "I have such a little work crush on him."

Now we're married with a carrot cake colored kitten named Kitten, a little home on the farm, the most tender sunrises in the valley, and I know every minute of every day that I'm going to miss this. Over and over, I catch myself penciling into my journaling, "This is the dream."

On my drive home from work today with my sweaty back and already glistening face, I started to cry and wet my cheeks as if they didn't have enough moisture already. I thought to myself, this is it. This existence is sweeter than I could've dreamed up. I don't even deserve it, but here I am, so happy to be here.

With tears I hadn't expected, I realized that yes, I might be too grown up for my own good, heart a little hardened, but I have never stopped being sentimental.