The jovial man at the end of the bar speaks loudly with his hands then casts his attention lovingly toward his date. Their eyes have love in them. They are interested in one another. It's incredibly sweet to witness. It dawns on me, seeing them together, that what I want most is for a lover to find me deeply interesting. I want to find him interesting too. His very livelihood, his art of being, will inspire me. I want to do the same for him.
All this mushy revelation comes to an abrupt halt, and my next thought: I don't find myself interesting at the moment. How was I ever interesting? I danced, read books, climbed mountains, baked with applesauce in place of oil, and I kept a harmonica in my pocket. I am in a different place now, but I find myself mysteriously longing for these old attributes, ignoring the glaringly obvious gift in front of me. Everything is new. I've changed. I still climb mountains, but I make my cookies differently. My harmonica is in the key of C now, whereas before it was F. I don't want to be a shell of my former self.
What do hermit crabs do? They abandon their shells and move into new ones. They are still the same sentient being, still the same crab. They just look different, and their circumstances are different. I don't know how often they change shells, or why, or what the adjustment period is but I think it's neat to consider the metaphor. I am a hermit crab, sitting at the bar, loving the love that surrounds me, and sinking deeper into the colorful shell that I've acquired.