It is difficult to find juicy limes.

They’re not like lemons, or maybe they are, but it seems like anytime I buy a lime it is dry. They look decent and green on the outside, but inside limes don’t flow.

Lemons, on the other hand, are always brimming with juice. In fact, I can not recall one lousy lemon purchase.

Strange, I know, since the term “lemon” is synonymous with a bad deal.

Lemons are bursting, shinier than limes, and happier. Lemon tarts, iced tea, lemon meringue. Lemonade, everyone likes lemonade. Lemons are tart.

Limes are margaritas, Key Lime pie, and fish tacos. Ceviche, I guess. But limes are complicated, smaller, less juice and all around too much work sometimes. Limes are sour.

I’ve been a lime lately.

Sluggish and pissy. Twisting and turning with no juice. I’m dried out and difficult. I want to do things, but nothing is happening. I’m in a stare-at-the-wall mood. I might be a touch sour, bitter maybe. My lime side usually is. Something isn’t fair, or I’m not getting enough graham cracker crust to forget the fact that I’m limey or that no one likes limeade.

Lemonade wins every time.

I know how to get back to lemon. Walks with Jack. Push forward until something, anything, eeks out. Cut myself some slack, get my hands in the dirt, and turn my face to the sun. A gentle breeze usually helps me find some juicy yellow. But right now, for a little while anyway, I’m going to salt the glass and be a lime.

The smaller in every way, bar-hopping sister to lemon.

Most of my life I was expected to be a lemon, I think most women are. Extra juice for everyone’s weekend stand, bright side, more sugar, please. Even on the days my green skin peeked through, dried me up, I’d throw my shoulders back and take a tall glass of water.

People were watching, and I was a lemon. In reality, no one was watching, and lemon twenty-four-seven is impossible, but early life is all about pretending, isn’t it?

Things change. Living allows us to settle into truths we never imagined.

Today, and most likely for the rest of the week. I’m lighting an emotional cigarette, wearing that blouse that’s barely on the right side of too-booby, and being the best lime I know how to be.

Hopefully, after salt, a few shots of tequila and a good fish taco, I’ll find my way back to the sunny side. Back to the juice.

If not, if lime is where I’m at for a while longer, I might borrow a cup of sugar and make myself into a Key Lime pie. No hurry, we’ll see how it goes.

That’s all from the laundry room. Bedtime Kiss.

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