Double take

I would recognize my nephew, Evan, anywhere: cherubic face, deep eyes, sandy brown hair. The other day I found a snapshot of him taken when he was a few months shy of his first birthday. I first said, "Aw... look at that sweet face!"

Then I shifted my focus to the lady holding Evs in her arms and thought, "Who's that girl?" For a few seconds, I didn't even recognize the face looking back at me.


Oh wait, that's me!! That revelation prompted a yin-yang style rush of emotions: "Hey hot stuff!" and then "Good grief. What happened to me?"

Oo, oo, I know! Marriage, baby, house, commute and a well worn love of pizza. The girl in the picture who looks like she's 18? She could take leisurely jogs with her husband and had an unhealthy relationship with a tanning bed. She had time to color, coif and curl her tumbling tendrils each morning, and at the end of the day she could take an hour to whip up a nutritious dinner to feed her soul and her waistline.

And that's okay. She was—to quote myself on so many occasions—"a fun girl!" But she wasn't Noah's mama and she wasn't the owner of a fixer upper. She didn't have as much character nor as much gumption, and she didn't understand that $100 was better spent on groceries than a bar bill.

I think I'll hang out with the Tif of 2009—four years older, wiser and richer. Ah, priceless.