When Life Gives You Lemons

Drove through my neighborhood yesterday, lost in everyday worries (such as, what in the world is the curious noise my car started making? And, more important, how much will it cost to fix?) Rounded the bend to see a gangly figure spring from the side of the road. Bare feet. Waist-length blondish hair. She waved a homemade poster board while her business partner manned a nearby card table. I acted as any person would, upon being rattled from anxious reverie by two strange girls selling who-knows-what:

I stopped.

The girls, probably about six and ten years old, sprinted over and regretfully informed me they were fresh out of pink lemonade (glad I am not the only one who holds pink lemonade in highest esteem) but asked if I would like chocolate chip cookies and yellow lemonade, instead. I proceeded to gush about my own lemonade-selling days: "Not that long ago, I was just like you." Of course, forgot I look like a grown-up. And since I failed to clarify that by “not that long ago” I actually meant oh, you know, about fifteen years, I suspect they thought me rather half-baked. But I could have cared less as I fumbled for quarters and we sealed the deal through the car window.

Let me tell you, there really is nothing like watered-down lemonade in a plastic solo cup to make you feel like everything is going to be ok.