(mushy) Sunday Secret

I am not a girly girl. I like motorcycles and grease. I have 19 piercings and am planning a cleverly placed tapestry of tattoos. I own more hoodies than shoes. My favorite smell is sawdust. I am not afraid to pick my undies out of my butt in public settings. I'm tough, I really am.

But I swear to Jebus, if Anne of Green Gables comes on the tv, I am useless for the next 15 hours.

Like, can't function useless. Like, cannot stop watching it no matter what useless. It kills me. I whimper, I shed tears. One night, we were moving and we had literally 6 hours left to be all moved out, and at 1 am we flipped on the tube and there it was. Needless to say, we were late.

This show tugs at every cold, dead heart-string I have. Now that I'm all grown-up, I like to hide this little problem I have behind a well-moderated obsession with all things Jane Austin, but Jane Austin can't suck you back into your 13-year-old soul like Anne can.

Oh, Gilbert Blythe. Oh how I swoon. Swoon, I say.

I get giddy at the thought of my daughter being oh, I don't know, 8 or 9 and old enough to get the angst behind these stories. I'm going to read her every single book. And then we're going to have a Ding-Dong & Chocolate Milk movie marathon. And I'm totally going to sob, I know it.

Because I am a great big softy, that's why.