A few months ago, inspired by The Bobby Bones Show (aka the only thing that makes me feel better about living in Austin besides an occasional celebrity meeting) and Brad Paisley, I decided that maybe it would be cool to try to write a letter to the 17-year-old bebe Me.
But no sooner had I started with “Dear (bebe Me),” than I was reminded of who I was at 17. I was a smug and supercilious aspiring elitist violinist and I can tell you what I would’ve done with a letter like that. I’d have smirked and thrown that unopened letter in the dumpster where I knew it BELONGED. Because no way in upper middle class, suburban teenage HELL did I need anything to tell ME about MY future.
So I abandoned the letter writing and made a toast instead – to my 17-year-old self. Because for once (and I really mean ONCE), she was right.
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2 comments:
Yay welcome back to my laptop screen - we missed you!
What not Jo Dee Messina? She's playing for the July 4th downtown Houston fyi.
My 17-year-old self was just learning how to be rebellious, and it was about time too.
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