Oh, the glamour

So when I was five, I wanted to be an actress or a princess, which according to a tempera paint self-portrait from that time meant wearing a ballgown and, apparently, a long blonde wig.

Oh delusional five-year-old Aimee. If only you'd known that real acting could mean gallons of fake red-dyed karo and hershey's syrup, 8 hours spent wet in the woods--in February--capped off by a swim in a frigid lake (really)--and that it would be even more fun?

Five-year-old Aimee would have understood instinctively the joy of standing in the sun in a dusty parking lot eating white bread sandwiches and nilla wafers with people she'd only just now meant but already really liked. She would have appreciated how a full-blast heater and a warm blanket would have felt at the end of a long day. She would have marvelled at all the people who just seemed to know when to pick up and move, when to tell a joke, when to hug, and how she seemed to fit seamlessly among them.

She would have. She still does. God, this is so much better than glamour. This is joy.