One day I explained to Max how it was more polite to use the word “obese” rather than “fat” when referring to heavy people. I didn’t think about the conversation again until a few months later when I told Max he had fat fingers.

He had a perplexed look, and I assumed I’d hurt his feelings by claiming that his digits were less than perfect.

“They’re obese fingers, Mama.”

That’s my boy.

Have you had this experience? Someone from your past pops up on Facebook, the two of you start reminiscing about days gone by, and you spend days thinking about who you were back then?

No? Well then I’m the only one.

I’ve noticed that every time a friend from high school or college pops up, I’m whirled back to that time. I think about who I was and how I’ve changed. It’s a weird feeling. Because I’m so different. And yet the same.

And there’s something about talking to someone, even after 15 years, who once knew you better than anyone. And you wonder what they know about you now that you don’t realize about yourself.

Right now I’m rolling back to early college, before I met (well, dated) my husband, back when my roommate and I partied every weekend (Goldfish and Kool-Aid, mom, don’t worry) and the biggest stress in my life was the 100 pages I needed to read for my Lit class.

In some ways, I idealize the girl I was: she was much more carefree than I am. She led and others followed. She tried new things.

But I’m more successful and richer than she was.

So nanny nanny boo boo, old self.

I submitted this story to my local weekly paper but thought it was good enough to share with you!

After a few days in Paris, I was ready to explore something out of the ordinary with my family. We’d done the Eiffel Tower (so over it). Stared at the stern statues on the Notre Dame.  And while the Sacre Coeur church, just around the corner from our apartment, was certainly on the top 10 for tourists, my son and I found a little something extra.

Wandering around the side of the 125-year-old church, we found a sign enticing us to mount the steps to the top of the dome. We were promised a magnifique view of the city.

And in small words, just beyond the turnstile: "Caution: There are 300 steps to the top. If you’re not up for it, don’t bother. You’ll regret it." At least that’s what my mind’s eye says the sign said.

After a brief moment’s hesitation, we paid our Euros to the machine (no friendly guide to warn us) and began our mount.

For a while, our pace was good. My son was six, so he nimbly mounted. But soon we slowed. In part because 300 stairs is a lot. But it’s even more when they’re a bit icy from the Parisian winter. And no, they don’t have employees that kindly melt the ice for you on the 4 inch wide stairs. It’s not that kind of country.

Soon we caught up with the tourists ahead of us, and others trailed us. We were in it together. Dead or alive.

What seems eons later, we emerged onto the terrace around the dome. The view was, indeed, magnifique. Once I was able to catch my breath and loosen up the stitch in my side, I was able to appreciate it.

We could see chimneys popping up out of houses, their smoke curling lazily into the sky. The Eiffel Tower greeted us from a few miles away. The entire city was bathed in a blue haze that only is enhanced by my romantic memory.

I’ve seen the city from many vantage points, but this by far was my favorite.

If only they’d install an elevator.