There was a time, perhaps when you were six years old, when formulas were quite simple and made complete sense:
1+1 = 2
Straightforward and not the least bit confusing.
As you got older, the world changed and shifted. Those easy equations took on a different form, with more variables and odd little symbols embedded in them. By the time you reached adulthood, they looked a little something like this:
No, I’m not talking about the home of the Cullen clan.
The forks I’m referring to are the kind that show up when you’re riding along a scenic little path, content as can be. The calm winds blow through your hair and the sun warms your face. The world seems right. You close your eyes just for a moment to take in the serenity of your surroundings and open them in time to come to a screeching halt.
What the hell just happened?
About sixteen years ago (ugh, really?), I was riding in the backseat of my mother’s silver sedan, nervously gnawing at my bottom lip while trying to breathe evenly. In the driver’s seat was my mother, dodging eye contact with me in the rearview mirror for fear she’d turn into a blubbery mess. My Aunt Karen sat in the passenger seat, turning on occasion with a bright but sympathetic smile that only made the looming threat of bile inch higher up my throat. The day I’d been dreading had finally arrived.