It’s 11pm on a work night and there is a little girl playing harmonica in the grocery store. As I am examining the avocados the child triumphantly stomps up and down in her feety pajamas playing her music with Mozart-esque enthusiasm. I have a coupon for forty cents off whole wheat spaghetti and remembered to buy more dental floss (even though I haven’t run out just yet), but there is something in the harmonica serenade that suggests I am only the second most prepared person the produce section tonight.

I want to grow up to be that child.