For the record, I know that I'm supposed to aspire to a certain degree of risk-taking and that in the grand scheme of things aspiring to get to T.J. Maxx before they close is perhaps not the loftiest of goals, but I'd like to make a few small points:
1. T.J. Maxx has a really good selection of underwear at a very nice discount.
2. I've decided to forgive myself for not being Amelia Earhart.
3. I like to think that if Amelia Earhart had survived, she would have appreciated the need for quality underwear at bargain prices. At the very least, I hope she'd have been willing to hear me out while I attempt to make the case for not setting world records on a regular basis.
Dear Ms. Earhart,
I love that you could touch the sky. I think about you sometimes and I wonder how it is that a little girl from Kansas learns to fly. I'm 48 years old and I still can't walk in heels.
Tell me, Amelia, did somebody infuse you with so much confidence that you always believed you could do anything you set your mind to? Or did somebody cut you so deep that you always believed you had something to prove to the universe? Were you ever tired? Were you ever lonely? Did you get scared a lot? I like to imagine that from time to time you were all those things, but what I find so really remarkable is that if you ever did feel exhausted or isolated or fragile, you never let it stop you from taking off.
Still, I have to ask, didn't the concept of changing into something made of flannel, ordering in a couple of sushi rolls, and renting a good movie ever tempt you even a little? Because frankly, that's my idea of a perfect evening. It's not that I don't experience a touch of wanderlust periodically, it's just that for all my talk of missing the swashbuckler gene, I'm currently off on an adventure of my own.
You see, Amelia, I'm trying to raise a 5-year-old with a lovely man who lives more than half his life on another continent. And I'm trying to be excellent at my job. And I'm trying not to feel just awful that it's 10 after 6 and I'm writing a letter to a woman who vanished in 1937 when I know I should be home convincing my daughter to at least give eggplant Parmesan a try before permanently relegating it to the things-we'd-rather-set-our-gums-on-fire-than-ever-eat-again food group.
I'm trying to understand Israel and Hamas and the auto industry and immigration reform and I'm trying to convince my insurance company to cover the blood test that it decided wasn't necessary. Amelia, didn't you ever have to stay home and wait for somebody to come and steam-clean your rugs?
As daring goes, I realize getting a kid to eat eggplant is a far cry from being the first woman to make a nonstop solo flight across the Atlantic, but my little adventure is definitely nonstop. And Amelia, like a lot of us, I'm pretty much flying solo too.
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