Please Forgive This Metaphor

Past 30, I feel like I have begun to seep through the edges of me like pancake batter. It's as if there are all these little tiny round pancakes forming off the main one, what my dad and I called "satellites" when I was a kid, and they are there to be picked off and eaten, which is utterly unsettling, although tasty for somebody.

This sense of expansion is enlivening and terrifying. It makes me want to crawl away and become a small dot the size of a pencil point.

But I guess the alternative would be to pour the batter into a mold, and, well, that's just not going to happen.