My 10-year-old self loved many a summer days – air slick with freedom, elbows slick from cherry popsicles. An entire universe whirling by from the banana seat of my lustrous purple Huffy.
Cicada symphonies. Gingham feasts. Chlorinated hair.
And then, I grew. From inches higher, the neighborhood creek seemed far less adventurous than the latest episode of Hey Dude. There were Brio issues to read, prank calls to make. Mascara became important (I was not yet privy to a waterproof formula).
And with the flip of an unseen calendar, I became an indoor girl.