Frankly, I don't have time to be a picky artist. And thankfully, my husband tells me the color isn't the monstrosity I first imagined. C'est différent, that is all. He even prefers the yellow. Now that my eyes have grown accustomed to it, I can see the appeal. That said, with the next glaze firing, I'll be fixing my eggshell. I've made lemonade with my lemons and now I want to go back to making milk, chromatically speaking.
In other news, I had lunch with an old friend today. The last time I saw her we were both young and unencumbered. We met today each with a child in tow. The stark contrast in our circumstances between our last encounter and this one, coupled with how little each of us has changed, gives proof to the nature argument. People, I have found, don't tend to alter much over time. I'd like to think we become wiser, but experience does not change our rhythm of speech or our sense of humor. A comforting thought as my skin gradually becomes more and more unrecognizable in the mirror; at least when I stop recognizing myself, I'll still get my jokes.