Pink bean bag chair

This was the blog post that I started writing today:

In 6th grade, I got my “grown-up” room.

Gone were the little-girl strawberry curtains, twin bed and old pink comforter. And in was a new stereo system, king-sized bed (I was spoiled), a painted wall, and a pink bean bag chair.

I loved that chair. It made my room smell like leather (or some imitation of leather). It was over-sized and over-stuffed and full of soft, supportive beans. And I sank in and soaked up my new space.

I talked on my new, see-through, funky phone.

I listened to The Bodyguard Soundtrack.

And my girlfriend, Jane, and I called the local radio station and sang made-up jingles.

In the words of Whitney, I will always love you my sweet, old pink bean bag chair.

And then, in the nostalgia of it all, my eyes watered.

I thought about how in the midst of life and business and changing roles and dying elders and wanting to be all grown up — we are suddenly just that: all grown up.

I thought about the transitional time in life where we go from being children to having children — and how as wonderful as it all is, there are also moments where I crave the company of my grandmothers. Where I want everyone I love to live in the same place and meet for Sunday dinner every week. Where I want to just sit in my old, pink bean bag chair.

But that’s the thing about life.

When we’re ready, we go from singing “I will always love you” with The Bodyguard Soundtrack — to reading “I’ll love you forever” to our own little babies. And the torch, burning with love, is passed on.

And I will say this: In the timeline of life, it’s wonderful to be able to look both backward and forward — and see great love in both directions.

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