Oatmeal On My Face...

...as opposed to IN my face, which is where I usually prefer it.

But yes, I spent a gutsy weekend slathering my face with oatmeal/banana/honey facial stuff, singing on the back deck of one of the prettiest spots at camp, hiking up and down hills in 80 degree heat looking for a tea party, and oh so much more!

Don't you wish you were at camp? Right now?

Is having oatmeal on your face the same as having egg on your face, metaphorically speaking? If so, then cover me with oatmeal again, because I keep on embarassing myself.

And that's okay. That's kind of part of being human. I just wish it didn't happen so dang often. It gets a little out of control. Pretty soon I've got oatmeal dribbling down my chin and onto my cleanest shirt, where it stays like sweet-smelling glue. And the oatmeal doesn't stop there. Spreads to my hair, slops onto my toes, tries to find its way into my nostrils.

Not a pretty picture, is it?

I wish I could go back in time--back to when I had something very precious to me--and stop myself before I dropped it on the floor. I wish I could do that. I really do. And I don't know if things would turn out better if I had caught it. Probably not. But at least it would have been different. And maybe different is good.

I don't know. Live life with no regrets, right? It's harder than it sounds. But I'll gutsily strive foreward, realizing that going back to catch something precious would completely defeat the purpose of life itself (as mistakes are sort of part of the story). I'll gladly take the oatmeal in the face again, I guess. Seeing as how it can't really be avoided.

Ah, well. Perhaps if it shattered so well when it dropped, that precious thing wasn't really so precious after all.

-The GLS