I am not kidding.
As I write this, we're listening to the music files he's going through, meta tagging them or otherwise doing stuff to organize them that I totally don't understand. They happen to be the last vestiges of my personal CD collection, tucked away in a binder that I had forgotten about until recently, when an insane urge to clean EVERYTHING ALL DAY LONG hit.
They call it "nesting" - I call it, the junk drawer is clean for the first and last time in history and I had to throw out all my socks that didn't match because it was keeping me up at night.
So I found this stash of CDs. They're the ones I used to listen to, over and over and over, driving my parents crazy. I'd lie on my bed and dream about the day I'd be a grown-up lady, living in the city, having all kinds of glamorous affairs and wearing fur and costume jewellery and having giant, awesome hair and basically, being a Danielle Steel novel character, but a post-Y2K version.
I played those songs ad nauseum, imaging what life would be like on the cusp of my thirties.
I did not for one second imagine I'd be spending it listening to the same songs, wearing the most hideous, frilly, little-house-on-the-maternity-ward nightgown at 7:30 pm because you guys, PANTS HURT when you're 39 weeks pregnant.
But here I am. And aside from being more uncomfortable than I've been in my entire life and more than a little nostalgic, it's not so bad. :Life as a grown-up lady has turned out to be not exactly what I expected, but pretty darn good. Unlike Danielle Steel's new novels.
Oh my god, you guys, do not read the new Danielle Steel novels.