DYama commented just the other day, "I think there is a fine line between passionate and crazy. Also, I think Leslie of all people should know the difference."
Unfortunate, but true. Passionate is unabashadly but considerately pursuing someone. Crazy is repeatedly going after a person who has already politely turned you down. Passionate is doing sweet little things to show someone you care. Crazy is showing up on your doorstep unnanounced and asking your roommate not to tell you that they stopped by. But I'm not speaking from personal experience or anything...
I had the pleasure of spending yesterday afternoon with a delightful five year old lad. We visited the Museum of Life & Science in Durham and spent an hour or so exploring the wonders of space travel (I must have watched the same rocket launching video six times), bubbles, sound, rocks and even saw the new baby bear. The museum also has a train ride much to the excitement of my young friend. We climbed aboard and prepared ourself for a ride through the forest. To a grown-up, it was no more than a glorified trolley. To a five year old, it was a bonafide train whisking us across the wild country and then through a dark and spooky tunnel before returning home again.
This little man also treated me to one one of life's yummiest treats, a Cook Out milkshake. And I do mean treated, he had the money in his pocket and everything which he checked on every hour on the hour. In that adorable five year old grammar, everything was "much more." As we crossed the parking lot to order our shakes he asked if he should get the money out of his pocket. I told him he should probably wait until we got to the ordering window. He informed me, "Well, I'll just open my pocket so that it's much more easier to get it out." Oh yes, much more easier indeed.
It's been unbearingly hot here in NC. I was telling a friend in Texas how it had been in the 100's and that the next day the forecast was calling for 105 degrees. His response, "Do you know what I just heard? Blah, blah, blah, cold front moving in." Still, we tarheels aren't quite equipped for this kind of heat. We like it just warm enough to glisten ('cause Southern girls don't sweat) and give us an excuse to head for the beach or pool.
Here's a question for all of you reading this thing. Why do you think it is that when people tell stories about their childhood, they always include the first and last names of other kids? However, with recent stories, we only use first names? I've got my own theory but I'm curious to hear from others.
I'm off to glisten poolside. To quote from the darling Disney cartoon version of "Robin Hood", ooh da lolly, ooh da lolly, golly what a day!