Letter to the gray girl dreaming

It's Tuesday, good people. Confession Time. Taking the diary route this week. Letter to me, the older, wiser me I was expecting I would be at this juncture.

Dear LaTonya,


Gurl, what are you doing? This is not the vision I had for you. With gray around your edges and dreams of early retirement on the horizon, you're suppose to be looking at Airstream models not cribs. You and Mr. are suppose to be lightening the load so you can be old and cool, sitting in the shade on a patch of land, living in a double-wide or shotgun, you didn't have a preference. The game plan was to write most days, talk with your sweetie and put in a few hours a week at the local general store so you could buy a few things, mostly books and whatever other small luxuries a retiree fancies.


Instead you're putting in 60 hour weeks, extended your plans for working in a gray, ugly cubical for at least six more years and brushing up on your cooking not because you have a desire to cook, but so you can save a few more pennies that you're going to need to help your child raise a child.

LaTonya, I wanted more for you. Gurl, I won't tell you you've disappointed me. Just want to say I love you. You can do this. The Airstream is on delay not out of reach. You will abandon the cubical, and you and Mr. will live in the Louisiana sun and make each other laugh and hold hands again and feel the butterflies again. You'll get by, gurl. You always have. You'll be fine.


Love,
L