Strides long, air crisp, and coffee in hand, we head toward the vibrant awning patchwork and the pleasant sound of gentle morning chatter. The air is fragranced with the sweet perfume of soil and babies gurgle from their strollers as I take in the visual feast.

Hearty voices adorn the scene.

"Hot Spicy Cheesy Bread!"

"Fresh Asparagus!"

"Cheese Curds, Get Your Cheese Curds!"

It's so friendly, so wonderful—and, I suppose, a little of my inner Bohemian comes forth.



I love the Farmer's Market.

I had an appointment with Dermatology today. I sat in the waiting room, looking around, and feeling like a jerk. There I sat with my golden tint and legs crossed (looking ever the bored socialite I'm sure), while I watched others limp in, some with bandages covering the skin that showed, and the rest displaying the ravages of skin cancer. There I sat with a non life threatening problem and I wanted to run away, skipping my appointment and losing the copay I had already signed off on.

At heart, I guess I'm a coward. I blamed it on shame—that desire to bolt—but it was really that I didn't want to come face to face with the sad little girl I walked away from some six years ago. There are a lot of bad habits out there, things that we do to fill some void or distract us from some feeling...but many of them aren't obvious to the world and people aren't walking around proclaiming that they're weak. Unfortunately, putting too much on your dinner plate isn't one of those habits.

It's one of those subjects that, to the right audience (my fitness forum girls can attest!) I will talk your ear off. I'll tell you everything you want to know about fitness, diet and weight loss—and how to rev your metabolism too. I'm a walking encyclopedia. But then, there are those around whom I clam up if the subject should arise and I don't want to be suspect of knowing anything on healthful living at all.

Not like this is any real comparison, but I remember my mother's first surgery, the one that left her with a 20" incision down her torso, and how Mom hated that scar. Barb, her sister, told my brother that she should be proud of the scar, "It's like a battle wound!" I found the comment stupid. What did she know of my mother's battle? Why would she think a daily visible reminder that you're different should be enviable? Hadn't she ever had something happen that she'd rather just forget altogether?

I have.

It's easy to see someone's victory but nearly impossible to imagine their struggle.

I was referred to the dermatologist after my physical earlier this month, and she was a very kind doctor. Her gentle nature made a dreaded appointment pass quickly—I didn't even break into tears as I feared I would. I left feeling a lot less like a jerk, and a lot like someone who was taking the first steps to eventually close a sensitive chapter from the destructive glare of retrospect.

(full story here)

So, the entire season, I've grown sick of hearing everyone on God's green earth refer to Jordin's age.

"Wow, 17!"
"Jordin is 17 years old, if I had that voice at 17..."
"I just can't believe you're 17!"
"Now, let's hear from the 17 year old..."

To me, it comes off as a qualifier. Wow, you're a really great singer, for a seventeen year old. Bah! It's not like Nick tells me, "Wow, 25 years old and you brewed this pot of coffee? If I could brew coffee like that when I was 25..."

But the season is over now, thankfully, and Jordin, she-whose-age-must-not-be-named, was crowned victor. Hopefully now she'll be able to celebrate her birthday without fear that she'll ruin her public identity. However, I cringe whenever the news loops and the showbiz bits run. "America crowns the youngest Idol yet—SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD!"

Lord knows I've put in my time abstaining from alcohol. I was once married to an alcoholic's son who considered the substance most evil and rarely did it enter our home. I didn't care, because it wasn't important to me, and while it still isn't, I've spent just shy of 2 years lifting boundaries and I am not now opposed to the occasional drink.

A year ago today, however, I would have taken a sip of beer and spit it all over the place because I thought it tasted nasty. Nick would buy hard ciders for me to drink socially when everyone else hit the ale, and eventually, just like my coffee that I would take with large amounts of flavored creamer, hard cider was way too sweet for me and I wanted the pure stuff.

This isn't the surprising part. I've proclaimed for years that you can train your taste buds—this from the girl who would only take her vegetables peeled, deep fried, and served in red cardboard adorned with a golden arch. Now, if not for Nick, I would be vegetarian. Honestly, I saw the new Charlotte's Web a few weeks ago and I was crying by the end. I haven't been able to eat pork since, and now have the occasional nightmare that a cute barn animal is looking at me and saying in the most adorable voice, "I don't want to be Christmas dinner!" Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I grew up on a farm, and my father was stern on instituting the order of the food chain...so it's a deep struggle for me.

But, back to beer. I can drink a lot without feeling it. More than Nick, for sure. Not more than Brenda, but she's been practicing longer. Thursday nights, Nick is in a golf league and I spend them with my aunts and, more often than not, we end up chilling at the local pub and laughing with the bartender. Last week, a biker guy sat next to Brenda and talked to her for what seemed like hours. I was introduced as the niece and was thereafter referred to as "Little Niece" as opposed to "Laura". I heard bits and pieces of their conversation as he became increasingly inebriated, and he made a comment when I ordered another beer...my third and final of the night, and the third different type (which is a foreign idea to my aunt who is a Miller Lite loyalist). And, while I couldn't hear exactly what he said, I heard Bren's reply, "She can drink a lot more when she's in the mood."

I remembered that last night as we caught a sort-of happy hour with Jim and the bartender asked if we wanted another pitcher. Nick and Jim told him "no" and I stayed out of it. He persisted, looking pointedly on me, "Maybe a little one?" Defensive, Nick replied, "Yeah, she can put it away!"

You know, it's funny. When I first started this blog, I never would have posted this. "Oh, what will people think!? I drink, I don't abuse it, but what if they think i do?" I was very concerned about what I wrote about and how I portrayed myself...but if I've learned nothing else (I've actually learned more than words can ever say) it's that life is short, judgments are stupid, and so are you if you let what someone else thinks bring you down. In the end you have yourself and your maker. Please the both of you and you win.