so deliciously figurative

You can make the scrambled eggs your own.

That's a sentence I heard uttered in my Fiction and Personal narrative course on Tuesday.

I was delighted.

It is, of course, true. You can make scrambled eggs your own. You can do this in a literal and delicious way, and you can do it in a figurative way, which is the way we were discussing in class, because in a Fiction and Personal Narrative course most everything is figurative. Figurative and delicious.

On the first day of class I had the moment I have at the start of any writing class which is the moment where I wonder IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.

I wondered that because I seemed to be the only one who hadn't spent the summer doing immensely important things like backpacking through southeast Asia or living in a commune in Russia or teaching English to orphans in Germany or the like.

And when it was my turn to tell how I had spent my summer months and I proudly bellowed "I WATCHED REALLY BAD SUMMER TV!!! ALSO I HAVE CATS AND I LOVE THEM!!! ALSO A HUSBAND AND I LOVE HIM!!!" that's when I had it, the moment of wondering IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.

But that doesn't really matter, does it? I AM THERE. I am there because I wanted to be there. Because when the girl who spent her summer at the commune in Russia talked about the piece her friend wrote about scrambled eggs and the professor was like "that's so great, because unlike some huge dramatic issue, you can make scrambled eggs your own" I immediately wrote the sentence down, and simultaneously laughed and pondered.

It was figurative and delicious. And I suddenly find myself famished.