People in this world are either branch or trunk.

Yes, I am vastly oversimplifying. Bear with me.

I used to be a branch type of gal. Creative, growth-oriented, swaying in the breeze but firmly anchored.

When young and single, my trunk was my family of origin—namely my mom and dad.

They were stable, oh so Midwestern, oh so predictable (except for that brief stint with disco lessons which we all studiously avoided discussing—I chalk it up to midlife crisis).

When I married, I wed a man who was stable, steady, balanced his checkbook to the penny.

He became the trunk to my branches.

It is oh so easy to be a branch—to grow, change with the season, be spontaneous, sway with the breeze—when you are firmly anchored to a solid base.

At some point in life and my marriage, I became the trunk. Unwillingly, perhaps unwittingly, I became the solid…