I was in the kitchen cooking spicy asparagus stir fry and salmon with wasabi pea crust when I heard Kristi howling with laughter from my couch. When I poked my head out the cutout window I saw that she was flipping through my saved programs on the DVR.
"Em," she asked me "exactly how many episodes of The Wonder Years do you have here?"
Even though she is a dear friend and I know she would not judge me, I just couldn't admit out loud that before I went to Ohio last weekend I deleted at least seven more episodes to make room for the Tony Awards. Because to vocalize it, to allow the words to exit my mouth and hang in the air and become part of the fabric of the universe, would inexorably establish that I am one Talbots pantsuit away from turning into my mother.