I am no mystery.
I worry too much. Sleep too little.
I argue too loudly. I praise profusely.
I hide my tears. And feed my fears.
Chocolate brings me smiles. But olives bring me memories.
I read as much as I breathe. I rarely ever sing.
I live in blue jeans, but wish I had legs for dresses.
If I lived alone, I’d only have sports and music on.
I doubt my value. But I adore self-confidence in others.
Believe what you see in my eyes as they can tell no lies.
I hold grudges. How many is too many?
But I also hold love very close. Suffocatingly so.
I dream of grand adventures and trips to exotic places.
I am relieved I am a mother of all boys. Because I have no fashion sense. At all. And don’t have the patience to play with hair.
I love to spend hours in a bookstore, but won’t spend ten minutes trying on shoes.
Materially, I am as low-maintenance as they come.
Emotionally, I am too high-maintenance, even for the most patient of men.
My best friends have always been male. I have trust issues with women – thanks to my Mom.
I was raised to believe the best part of being brunette was an innate air of mystique.
I dream of disappearing. But am afraid of being forgotten.
I am no mystery. I’m just me.
(Although, I admit that my favorite flavor of ice cream – Brown Sugar, Bourbon and Bacon – is a bit puzzling.)