As I was making dinner last night, I heard Husband watching the trailer for Fuller House and was instantly transported back to the Friday nights of my formative years.

My best friend and I would often watch together, hanging out in her game room with her little sister.  We loved the show and how the girls somehow dealt with many of the same issues we did. I instantly teared up, thinking of all the slumber parties, movie marathons and thousands of secrets whispered between friends.

Husband walked in, saw I was lost in a haze of nostalgia and asked if a TV show from the 90s really had me all misty eyed. I choked out, “Val had a little sister and I was the friend that dropped by all the time.” Husband’s response? “You were Kimmy Gibbler?”

I laughed and said sure, thinking I had done a bad job explaining myself. After all, I was trying to explain that the show meant a lot to me and that there were strong parallels with my life at the time. After all, who would want to be Kimmy Gibbler?

But maybe being Kimmy Gibbler wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it was a great thing. 

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