Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

After a few days of opening this blog to see my toes - and dude, they're distance-runner toes, and they can be kind of hairy in certain lighting - I had to update the blog for the singular purpose of bumping the picture with my toes.

Things are going well, as long as I don't think about work. In fact, if I hadn't carpooled yesterday, I might have quit. But I needed to give Matt a ride home so I figured I'd stick around. Speaking of Matt, these final carpooling days are going to start getting bittersweet. Soon I'll be moving, far away from our favorite little Park-N-Ride, and making all new carpool buddies. What if they're not as flexible? What if they don't participate in trash talking? What if they like country music? (Well, Matt likes country music. We can only agree upon no music, bluegrass, or Johnny Cash). I digress - what if they only like bad country music? What if they don't appreciate my friends drunk dialing them from my phone like that one time with the margaritas and the phones back when Matriarch Sarah had about a two week window where she could drink?

I feel like I need to somehow commemorate the carpool breakup. Maybe we could tailgate in the Park-N-Ride lot and blast bluegrass, drink margaritas, talk trash about work, and drunk dial Sarah, preferably at a time when we won't wake up any of her sleeping babies. So much has changed since our halycon days of drinking with whoever we want without any fetal alcohol syndrome side effects or disturbing naptime or having corporate jobs with carpool buddies. Our lives are zooming by us, and I fully intend to appreciate the little moments, the little rites of passage, the little hairless toes of youth.