I’ve never liked green olives.
First off, they’re a FOOD with the same texture as rubber bands and secondly, you simply cannot trust any food that’s impaled with another food, unless that food is a Twinkie. Because that’s science. (Chicken cordon bleu? No. Stuffing from inside the turkey? Also no. Let’s not talk about sausage right now.)
As a kid, if I was over at a friend’s house I could feel myself start to sweat right around dinner time because I never knew if they were going to eat something terrible that I’d have to pretend to eat and then slyly stuff the dinner, by bite, in my napkin. Would it be some sort of chicken spaghetti (fowl doesn’t belong with pasta) or would it be a “veggie pizza” — complete with black olives and oh, bless, mushrooms?
For the record, olives are allegedly fruit and mushrooms can present as vegetables, but are actually fungi. Classify them as whatever you’d like, when I was 9 they were simply gag-inducing foods.
Fast forward to today.
I’m fairly certain I’m middle age. (My autocorrect just changed that to “Middle Ages.” Interesting. It may be on to something.)
And, I LOVE black olives, kalamata olives and mushrooms.
We grow a little and our tastes change.
Whether it’s as simple as olives and mushrooms, or more complicated… like our thoughts on how we grew up, our faith, our friendships and relationships, our careers, our goals… we’re allowed to change our minds.
We grow a little, our tastes change and that’s that.
We move along, making space for those around us who are figuring it out, too.
When I was a teenager and even and even an early 20-ager I was so judgmental of my Mom’s life decisions. For me, everything was so black and white. I’d think about her choices and immediately make it clear that “I wouldn’t EVER do that, nor would I ever have done that.”
Oh, youthful, uninformed ignorance. So delightful.
It’s so easy to sit in the lifeguard stand of judgment when you’ve never really been in the pool… or the ocean.
I’ve gotten older.
I’ve seen a bit.
Felt a bit.
Regretted a bit.
Grown a bit.
Veered a bit.
My tastes have changed.
What I once tolerated, I don’t.
What once frustrated me, I’m patient with.
I’m not who I once was, and I LOVE THAT.
I LOVE that we get to simply make a new decision. Everyday. If we so chose.
When my Mom was 46 she picked up everything and moved from the city to the country. She went from the thriving metropolis of Toledo, Ohio — my home — to a small town in Missouri, population less than 500. It BROKE me. I couldn’t understand WHAT she was thinking. “I wouldn’t EVER do that, nor would I have done that” was on repeat in my brain and, regrettably, from my mouth.
As a nearly 42-year-old woman who has turned an about-face on so many topics in the past couple of years… I get it.
She grew a little, her tastes changed. She moved forward and listened to *her* inner knowing and, well… that was that.
It astounds me how even though she’s not here, she’s still teaching me lessons from the beyond. (Just like Tupac. Kidding.)
So, we grow a little and our tastes change, friends. And that’s ok.