In “Belle In The Big Apple,” I write:
Twenty-five, twenty-five…there was something that made it the year of singular beauty and opportunity. It was supposed to be the time when my profession, my sentiments and my social circle formed a flawless sphere–a shape as perfect as a hen’s egg.
Boy was I naive.
Flash forward to the present–I’m obsessing about eggs but only because my 1 year-old daughter loves them and they keep her from having an afternoon melt-down…