The Gelato & Gasoline party was scheduled for Saturday. Entertainment would be me, dramatically sliding focaccia onto wooden boards. Lifestyle cred would be infinite.
There’s a specific kind of delusion that sets in right around your 44th birthday. I call it the “Interior Renovation Cascade.” It starts innocently—a throw pillow you saw on Instagram. Then, suddenly, you’re on a first-name basis with the guy at the tile counter at Floor & Decor, and you’ve convinced yourself that removing a load-bearing wall is “just a little drywall dust.”
I felt seen. I felt capable. I felt like maybe the reason my life felt a little stale wasn't my marriage or my job, but the fact that I didn't own a 1970s Alfa Romeo oven.