Baby, I'm Yours. (And, You're Mine.)

I was supposed to be cleaning out our guest room closet the other night.

But, as always happens when I'm supposed to be cleaning out ANYTHING that contains ANY sort of memorabilia, it's all over.

I'm toast.

I plop down amidst the memories and get all sentimental - reading through a mess of papers and gazing at old photos and mementos and "Trip down memory lane" trumps any idea of cleaning out.

(I secretly think that's the way it's supposed to be. Who cares about cleaning when there are MEMORIES TO BE RELIVED?)

I found my wedding shoes. White platform sneakers that I bedazzled with rhinestones and silver ribbon shoelaces. I loved them and I remember gluing on those sparkles and slipping into them and how much I LOVED that I was getting married. My socks were still tucked inside of them. Happiness.

I also found my wedding tiara. Which I IMMEDIATELY placed atop my ratty bun and walked downstairs in my holey t-shirt and yoga pants and sashayed all Miss North Carolina like into my husband's office. He rolled his eyes and quipped, "I see you found the closet."

Why, yes I did. And, it's MISS "I See You Found The Closet" to you.

Back in the closet, I found the box with my childhood pictures. I had been looking for that box in the attic earlier this year, but alas, disorganized people can never find what they're looking for in the place where they're looking, but instead find treasures when and where they least expect to find them.

When this happens to us disorganized folk, it's like Christmas. This is a fact.

So, I opened up the box and when I saw my baby picture, I gasped.

I hadn't seen it in years, so I ran and grabbed my computer to pull up a photo I'd taken months earlier.

Because.

This.

Left - Me. 1975.

Right - Holly. 2013.

Cleaning out the closet.

FOR THE WIN!