It seems the "happier" I am the less witty I become as well.
Where I once couldn't determine what fantastical experience I wanted to share in an animated, metaphorical way, now I find myself bombarded with a bunch of half-baked ideas and a habit of Googling real recipes instead.
After a cup of coffee (or 3) the metaphor peaks its caffeinated head and begins by comparing men to a nice cut of beef...
And then all of a sudden I'm fantasizing about a roasted sirloin tip with a balsamic demi glaze instead of Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome.
I used to write posts about my tiny apartment and how it was more than just a space to live, it was an extension of my independence. But now, similar ideas manifest themselves in a trip to Ikea.com and fantasies about decorating my new (shared) home. Instead of embracing solitude, I'm finding patterns that compromise femininity with a more masculine approach.
Is this what nesting is?
Am I destined to become a mom, a quilter, a woman who looks forward to the Fourth of July Flag cake more than the inevitable margaritas?!
Will my writing suffer a similar fate to my 12th grade love of painting with watercolors-- old posts and columns collecting dust in the basement because the room they were once displayed in becomes a nursery?!
Perhaps (like everyone else) I could blame twitter and status updates for my creative demise.
I could say that because all of my wittiness and talent is suddenly summed up into 140 characters or less that I've forgotten how to embellish, how to tell a real story.
So instead, I twit my best lines and look at food p0rn rather than compare men to my favorite late night snack. I fill my drafts with the first half of a metaphor and my recipe box with what's left.
Because in addition to a few wrinkles and a strange lust for home goods, it seems I've lost my ability to find glamor in the simple life.
And sadly enough... men are no longer expensive steaks or the icing on the cake, but instead real life people I actually want to cook for.