No sign of a choir for miles.

Sunday, I ventured to the grocery store wearing yoga pants – Starbucks in hand. Holy urban, [non-Affleck] Batman. Who am I?

I was a girl headed to yoga class with zero edible products in my kitchen, that’s who.

It’s still amusing that trips to the grocery store can be made daily. Like someone who was raised in the Great Depression, I have difficulty letting go of things from my childhood. On rural route 3, past the end of the black top we went to the grocery store purposefully. A 40 mile round trip to Wal-Mart could not be wasted picking up a forgotten item. [Note: this is still protocol at my childhood home] Now, I stop by the grocery 2-3 times per week.

Standing over the eggs – the ridiculous selection of eggs – I 100 percent laughed from the pit of my stomach. I am the girl from the movies my rural self never wanted to be. So naïve, I was.

I’m 1k miles from my rural hometown surrounded by a population that is truly 3-5 generations removed from the family farm. And, I’m happy.

Sometimes it’s difficult to allow yourself to be someone different from what you know. I’ve always wanted to share my passion about agriculture with someone other than the choir. The choir, they get it. They’ve been hittin’ those high notes their entire lives.

Here I am. I’m right where I’ve been asking to be. No sign of a choir for miles.

The unlimited supply of cinnamon dolce lattes isn’t half bad, either.