I-10 and I have shared quite a bit of quality time together recently. Two weekends ago, I was strolling along Bourbon Street and sipping on hand grenades (otherwise known as a liquid Jolly Rancher...in the worst way possible) in New Orleans. I even managed to squeeze in almost every creole fare by ordering a sampler of jambalaya, gumbo, red beans & rice and crawfish etouffee.
And this past weekend, I made a twenty-four hour trip to Houston for the One Direction concert with some girlfriends. We're completely aware that we surpassed the average age demographic for the British boy band about the same time all our friends got their braces off. However, we embraced being full-on crazed teen boy band fans by reveling in the fact that this was our last year as teenagers. We were all nearly front row, and I think my ears are still ringing. On an attempt to stalk them at their hotel post-concert, we caught sight of their tour bus and followed them until we realized going home at 1am was probably best; after all, we gotta play hard to get.
And in between all that, I've been able to enjoy the company of these lovely ladies and a very special lady...
by the name of Emily. Indeed, Emily has arrived happy and healthy with a head full of hair (brunette like her mommy, daddy and brother's) and nails that could be taken to the salon. This is the first niece/nephew I've met on the day of their birth and it was quite a treat.
So, within the last week, I've gone from being 21 in New Orleans to posing like a 14-year-old at a concert to nestling a baby only a few hours old in my arms. I-10 and I will meet again this weekend as I make my trek home--for good this time.