Little Triggers




When I was 35 I distinctly remember believing – and I mean actually believing – that I was likely not going to age much more. It’s this kind of absolute conviction that allowed me to continue to wear those band t-shirts (Elvis Costello, The Clash, The Pretenders) possibly longer than I should have and to separate myself from those around me who may have already succumbed to floppy gym pants and soccer-mom haircuts. (These are always touted as ‘wash and wear’ but the truth is, if you’re not careful the whole family will end up with basically the very same do …)

And yet this would not be me and nor would I lose my urban edginess, not with a single strip of leather bracelet, the possibility of a nose piercing presenting itself every now and then and of course I also had a perfect husband – handsome, well kept, often sporting designer stubble and a quirky, tweed scarf when the weather turned chilly. There was a spanking new Subaru in the driveway. We also had two big dogs and a red wagon to pull our children along through crisp leaves in the soft, golden glow of autumn. Continue reading