My first job after college was as an English and Drama teacher at a small private school in Maryland. I studied theatre (yep, of the -re variety) at Syracuse University, and I knew I'd need to come home, get a job and save money before making The Big Move to New York. For a long time, I wanted to be a writer, but I allowed a college counselor to convince me that the only way my magna-cum-laude-high-school-grades-with-several-AP-credits-and-some-very-mediocre-SAT-scores would matriculate was through performance; at that time, I'd been a professional actor for a good portion of my life and this college counselor was an authority, so I believed her.
We bought our house right before the winter holidays in 2019, and my partner, James, has been spending his quaran-times setting up his basement woodworking shop.
Earlier this week, I was making dinner when he came upstairs, paused the podcast that was accompanying my preparations, and presented me with this. James was excited. It took me a moment to grok what I was looking at. When I understood, I got a little misty.