Eulogy for Some Khaki Shorts

I read once that newspapers have ongoing obituaries for celebrities and other famous people. They're called "advances", and by compiling them first and adding onto them as years go by, the writers can build and fact-check ahead of time so that when a celebrity dies, the newspaper can add in a few last facts and release it within hours or even moments of the announcement.

As a person who rarely plans in advance for anything -- dinner, stopping for gas, laundry -- I find this fascinating and smart.

As a person who struggles with goodbyes in any form, I find it freakish and morbid. It makes me glad to not be famous. It's enough to have cameras lurking around your bushes or following you to Starbucks; think of some lonely writer in the basement of your hometown gazette adding your latest Oscar nomination or car crash to your file, waiting for the day you croak and his touching tribute will land on everyone's doorstep.

But there are times where it's important to be prepared. Times where you must steel yourself against a loss that changes something in your very soul. Times where you ease into your goodbye slowly, like dipping a toe into the frigid ocean as opposed to waiting for a typhoon to swallow you up.

And so I begin to say goodbye to my favorite pair of khaki shorts.

Yes, I'm fully aware that may be the whitest white person sentence I've ever written. I own it, and I hate myself for it. The idea of khaki shorts is so suburban America, and the idea of having a beloved pair is downright embarrassing on levels I'm still learning to navigate. At least they weren't pleated.

But I'm sad, y'all.

I've seen it coming for a while now, and with each wear and wash, I have felt the slow creep of the trash can drawing near.

Oh, Death, thou art so beige.

I don't know how old these shorts are; I can't even measure time in BK or AK. I bought them at a discount store called Ellis Half Off which was remarkable because it was a dingy store front in a questionable part of our neighborhood, and all it contained was the irregulars and cast-offs from Target.

Can you imagine? Target. Cast-offs. Discounts. It's been gone for years, but that's grief I've already processed.

I found several pairs of khaki shorts there (one can never have too many khaki shorts and white t-shirts for your summer), but as it was a store of irregulars, this pair was the only one to fit. They had to be under $3.00 because nothing in there cost more than a bag of Taco Bell. This was its magic.

The tag read the wrong size, but over the years, the shorts have adapted to whatever size I had become. Lose a few pounds and the drawstring serves its purpose. Gain a few pounds and the cotton stretches fearlessly.

They're like the jeans from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, except they're shorts, and I'm not about to let someone else borrow them. Get your own khakis, sister.

I once spilled bright orange paint on them in the Health House at El Tesoro. It's been nearly a decade since I sat at that table, painting rocks and guzzling homemade salsa. I relegated them to camp shorts and lounge shorts after that, but within a few washes, the paint vanished.

They magically healed themselves to stay in my life, y'all. Khaki miracles are real.

With me, they've traveled a lot, and it shows.

My thighs rub like three wishes are gonna get granted.
The wear and tear is so real. Girls, I know you hear me.

They've traversed hundreds of miles over two different summer camps. They've soaked up the saltwater from the Atlantic and the chlorine from pools across Texas. They've helped me set up nearly every classroom I've been in at my school, and they comforted me through long, hot Saturday mornings, grading papers without A/C. They've taken hundreds of truck rides at the ranch and sat on the world's filthiest curb on Bourbon Street.

Even after a lifetime soaking in Tide and OxiClean, they smell like campfire smoke and homesick tears, cedar trees and freshly cut grass, spilled vodka and soft cotton. And they feel like going home.

I don't wear them out much anymore. They're the kind of shorts that you have to pre-plan your undergaments around because not only are they threadbare in places, but the seams threaten suicide on any given deep squat. And we've established I'm not much of a pre-planner.

In truth, the last couple of times I wore them on an errand, I scoped out my escape routes in case such a moment (and my underwears) came to light. This is not an anxiety that should accompany you to the public library.

Overdue books, yes. Your khaki shorts rotting off of your body, thread-by-thread, in the biography section, no.

So with much regret, I have decided their end is near.

I toyed with several methods of farewell: sewing shears, the Salvation Army donation box, a little Boyz II Men karaoke tribute, a Viking funeral.

None seemed appropriate.

So, I came home, placed them in the wash one more time and will place them in a box of other beloved but retired things.

And maybe next time I'm feeling sentimental or headed to the beach, I'll take them out to find them healed once more.

The orange paint glob was right there on the left leg, I swear it.

Farewell, old friend. It is, in fact, so hard to say goodbye.

Bloom Where You're Planted

This was my writer's response topic for my classes last week.

I gave it to them on the day I was assigning them to new seats and new teams. This is always a day filled with gnashing of teeth, lamenting wails, and other various expressions of teenage angst meant to drive adults so insane that they wind up giving in.

But I am no mere mortal adult, and I do not give in. I am well-versed in the art of guilt and inspirational quoting. This also happens to be one of my favorite expressions -- one that I tend to remind myself of when life takes a turn that makes me unhappy or overwhelmed.

My kids did fairly well at deciphering the meaning of the quote and VERY well at my intentions behind it. A new semester, new start... all of that. The angst level never rose above DEFCON 3, and for a week now, stability and *gasp* improvement have been the norm.

I felt pretty proud for about 6 hours. Then, I got in my car, looked in the mirror, and realized that everything I had just preached at my kids hasn't really been practiced by me lately.

I've been absent from this little space of the internet for a while now -- over a month by date alone, longer if you start looking closely at effort. I didn't stop writing; I still try to do that every day. My goal, after all, was to find a place to spill and drop the stress and worry and anxiety I found building up. My goal was to find something that made me happier and freer. I don't always accomplish that every day. Never have, never will.

The holidays were hard. I knew they would be because they are every year. By November, I am exhausted physically and mentally from work which has been exceptionally difficult this year.  And the brightness and light and commercial drain slapping me in the face each time I take a walk through Target tends to exhaust me spiritually as well. This Christmas brought a little extra emotional quicksand as I watched and waited through another leap off the deep end with my dad's health. And, in true Deana fashion, his backslide caused my own backslide because I am nothing if not my father's daughter.

Even as I felt myself fraying, I kept trying to write my way out of it, to use my words as my nightlight, to throw the puzzle pieces on the screen and the page and wait for them to fall into place. I kept writing and people kept reading and friends kept supporting. But one day, someone, in passing relayed a concern from someone else. "Deana just seems SO... SAD."

And I froze.

Granted, the ellipsis and the capital letters... maybe those are my own hearing; maybe not. All words are open to interpretation and strike different chords in different people at all sorts of different times. This is what makes words so dangerously beautiful. It's not that, at that very moment, I disagreed. In fact, in that moment, I wholeheartedly agreed. I was very sad some days, but not every day and certainly not CAPITAL LETTER sad.

But in the message of "I am concerned (and also saddened) by this", I received "Deana just seems so... pitiful (and frankly, it's a little much)."  And then... someone else said it, to my face, with a full-on sympathetic head tilt. Oh, sweet Jesus, the head tilt. That's when you know there's trouble.

I didn't stop writing, but I stopped posting. I stopped sharing me with anyone else and just closed up. I thought that maybe if I just stopped telling then people would stop hearing and then they would stop worrying/judging. If I didn't fill my timeline with links then people wouldn't feel compelled to click them and then I wouldn't feel so bad when anyone tilted their head in my general direction, even if it was a well-intentioned, heartfelt head-tilt.

And then I stopped writing altogether. Don't act shocked; it's the next logical step in the shut-down process. After all, the reason I began posting was so that when I tried to vanish (and I knew I would), there'd be some accountability. I took all TWO of those possibly (probably) innocent statements, and I spun them out of control until they absolutely dominated all of my self-esteem with questions and hesitation. Because this is my Achilles' heel -- wondering and doubting how people actually feel about me. Waiting for people to lose interest, find me tiresome, and walk away. It's nonsensical and overly dramatic and has virtually no basis in reality, but for some reason, none of that logic ever rears its head in those moments. So instead, my sad becomes too big, and others' happy becomes too loud, and it gives me the perfect excuse to shrivel up and fade and prove myself exactly right.

I amaze myself at my inability to identify my nonsense as it occurs.

So, last week, when I looked in the mirror, I knew that I had not been living what I was selling. I felt no better than a snake oil salesman promising new health and a new start. I came home, sat in front of my screen and stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place; no lights magically came back on. But that's not how it works, and I know that. I still couldn't shake that doubt, so slyly tugging at my pocket, so I went back. I went back and read everything I've written here, and then I went back and read my journal. And then I went back to those links I posted; I read all the kind comments I could find from all the people I trust. I hoped that seeing would lead to believing and I would suddenly trust all of the good from others and ignore all of the bad brewing within.

And I sat in front of my blank screen last night, and I stared. Nothing happened. No pieces fell into place. No lights magically came back on.

Because that's just not how it works. Flowers don't blossom in the cracks of concrete jungles because anyone planted them there. Cactus blooms don't appear because someone else hauls water through the desert to feed them each day. Dandelion seeds scatter accidentally on the winds far more often than on the wishful whispers of a child. Bluebonnets cannot reappear year after year without dying and withering first.

They don't bloom because someone wants them to or even because someone wills them to.

They bloom because they can.

They bloom because they persevere.

They bloom in spite of their circumstances and not because of them.

And they bloom because sometimes, strangely enough, the very best thing for the strongest and most beautiful flowers is a truckload of shit thrown on them.

Come On, America.

When I was 6, my parents moved us to the small Texas town of 2022 people.  I say this as if they'd moved us from some giant metropolis.  In truth, except for a few random memories of kindergarten torture in my previous home, I've never known anything other, and I still consider it to be my hometown even though I haven't lived there in nearly two decades.

Growing up in such a small and sheltered place (two stoplights, one Dairy Queen, and approximately 15 churches) had its distinct advantages.  I had very close friends who were more like family.  I benefited from a sound and extremely stable education (especially in junior high where I had the same teacher for each core class for 3 years straight).  I was safe to ride my bike, cruise in my car, or walk about town with little to no real concern of being snatched up.  Heck, I don't know that my parents ever even locked our front door until I went away to college.  I still sometimes forget to lock my car doors, 20 years later.

There were disadvantages too, of course.  In a town that small, everyone knows you.  Consequently, everyone knows all your business.  It can also get kind of boring.  Not much to do on a weekend night except for get into trouble.  Everything tends to run a few years behind, also -- cable tv, cell phones, politics, fashion (I know... as if I'm really ever one to comment on fashion).  And sometimes the sheltered state feels kind of like a police state, especially to a teenager.

Disadvantages aside, please understand that I truly love where I grew up.  It was idyllic in so many ways.  But it wasn't until I left those city limits that I really began to understand what I'd been missing.  See, in my hometown, everyone looked sort of the same.  Everyone had basically the same way of thinking.  I graduated with 33 people in my class.  Three were African-American; two were Hispanic.  And I didn't realize that it could be any other way.

When I graduated from college with my teaching degree, there was a real worry among my friends that I'd just stay there forever.  I'd been living there and doing my student teaching in my old junior high and high school, and all the members of my family and friends feared that the complacency and comfort would claim me.  I probably would have stayed if my mom and dad hadn't sat me down and told me "The life you're meant to lead isn't going to happen here.  You are meant for different things and different people."

It is still, to this day, the greatest gift I've ever been given -- the permission to leave.

So I moved to the DFW area and soon got my first teaching job at a junior high (7th and 8th grade) in Arlington.  In those two grades, there were 925 students.  In my childhood school, kindergarten -12th grade, there'd been less than 700.  Everywhere I looked, everyone looked different than I did.  My first teaching assignment was as an ESL teacher.  For the first time in my life, I was the only white face in the room.

I have never forgotten that feeling.

In the past 13 years at that same school, I've lived a different life for sure.  Very different from the first 18 years of my life.  I have taught students from all over the world -- France, Vietnam, Korea, China, Mexico, the Czech Republic, etc.  A few years ago, I had a student come to my room from Liberia.  He and his father and siblings hiked for three weeks, at night, to escape his country's civil war.  When we did free reading in class, he squatted under his desk, knees hunched up around his ears.  When I asked him about it, he told me, "That is how I used to get small when we would have to hide.  That is the way I feel safe."  He is also the student who would pick up pencil stubs and crumpled papers, always shaking his head at his wasteful American classmates.  I learned a lot from him.  Teaching those kids was a pretty big experience for a girl who had barely even left the state in any way other than through a book or a movie.

I've also had my eyes opened in a lot of other ways.  I've had students who were homeless.  Students whose family income is through drugs or prostitution.  Students who were pregnant at 13.  Students whose grandparents are only a few years older than I am (by the way, I am only 37).  Students whose parent(s) were incarcerated.  I've had students who went to jail themselves.  In my first year of teaching, the gang unit was called to our campus 4 times in one year to help combat the gang violence.  In one of my first assignments, I asked the kids to bring a family picture for a writing assignment.  One of my favorite kids brought a picture of him, his father, and his grandfather.  He showed me, and I promptly took it next door to ask a more seasoned teacher if they were, in fact, all throwing up gang signs.  They were, indeed.  There was also a two year old in the picture, attempting the same sign.  I also got to know a great many of our kids in that same school who came from regular two-parent, middle class families.  We had kids who grew up in multi-million dollar mansions and whose parents went to work as professional athletes.  We also had kids who grew up in the trailer park down the street.

It was the absolute strangest place I could have ever wound up.  I told my parents very vague details about my daily work life for fear that they'd make me quit on the spot.  Back then, I couldn't have told you why I stayed, but I know now.  I stayed because I loved those kids.  They were so interesting to my small-town self and their honesty and upfront way of dealing with me was such a completely foreign concept.  My students became my teachers about all of our cultural differences -- music, hair, dancing, humor, language -- and their delight in my inept fumblings and questions delighted them to no end.  In turn, they let me teach them, not just about English or basketball, but about the world outside their own city limits.

Their favorite subject was to interrogate me about my own past -- it still is to some extent.  Their eyes would widen as I would tell them about the introduction of the SECOND stoplight to my hometown or how local businesses would close completely for the Friday night football games.  They didn't believe that we had no ATM.  They scoffed at the fact that the nearest movie theater was 60 miles away.  But the statement that really caught their disbelief was the train tracks.  For the most part of my life, if you lived in town and were white, you lived on one side of the tracks; if you were black, you lived on the other side.  They would shake their heads and tell me that such things weren't legal.  I laughed and told them that I didn't really think that this had been a continual legal battle but that society's laws and rules are far more often likely to set the tone than any bow-legged sheriff.  They would question me at length about the differences between the two sides and if I thought of my beloved hometown as "full of racism and prejudice".  And always there was the question of "where do the mixed-race kids live"?  That was a very difficult and hurtful conversation -- for me and for the biracial child innocently asking the question.

Another teacher told me once that I shouldn't share my background with the students, that it would provide fodder for them to accuse me of being racist when a disagreement arose (because of my obviously racist upbringing).  But I just couldn't do it; I think it's important to have a firm grip on where we've been in order to know where we're headed.

All the time in my classes, I talk to my kids about differences.  I explain very early on that I'm here to provide a safe space for learning and that ignoring someone's differences doesn't eliminate their differences.  We talk and debate very freely about lots of issues, including things like religion and race and culture.  But we try to also educate each other instead of alienate one another.  Sometimes I think about what I hear from them -- what it's like to be a young black man, what it's like to sit in a classroom full of people speaking a different language, or what it's like to struggle with whether to wear a hijab in a world of girls with ponytails and curls -- and I remember those first few moments of loneliness and fear when I looked out into a room that did not reflect me.

That's not to say that life in my classroom is perfect.  It looks vastly different than the school and town I grew up in, but some of the same issues still reside.  At least once a week, we have to discuss why I won't allow a certain song (because it has the "n" word).  And I often have to defend my stance that NOBODY gets to use that word in class.  I have had to explain the term "wetback" to a student who claimed to think it was about people working in the sun and sweating.  FYI... it does not.  (I also knew that he didn't really understand because he called a Caucasian student that after a football practice.)  I've had to differentiate that all Hispanics are not Mexican and that not all Hispanics are illegal immigrants to a young man in a philosophical debate.  I cannot even begin to tell you the struggles I had trying to illuminate that a person can, in fact, be both Asian AND Chinese (and that the kid wasn't just trying to pull a fast one on this girl).  I literally thought my head would explode from the effort.  We've also recently had to tackle "that's gay", "retarded", and "no homo".  I'm really ready for the repetition of  "no homo" after-any-compliment trend to be done.

And my kids aren't alone.  I've said some (at best) culturally insensitive things in my lifetime.  I'm certainly not proud of it, and I suppose that someone could rake me over the coals for it if they wanted to dig deep enough.  But I'd also like to think that I'm pretty aware now of other people and what's hurtful.  It's a conscious choice to not go around being a jerk.  And the best way to not be a jerk is to educate yourself about people who are different than your own self.  My students hear other adults, celebrities, songs, movies, comedy routines, and they assume that because something is "okay" there, it's "okay" for them as well.  Being teenagers, it's also hard to get them to avoid pushing a button just for the delight of pushing the button.

So last night, I started hearing about Richie Incognito being suspended from the Miami Dolphins for -- you guessed it -- bullying a teammate with -- yep, you guessed it -- some disgusting slurs and other foul messages.  Yet another white dude tossing out a racial slur in order to show his manliness or get his way or just be an idiot -- I don't know.  It seems that every time I turn around, someone, somewhere is acting a fool seemingly just to act a fool.  And, of course, there's always someone else willing to stand up and defend the fool.  Happens all the time.  Just take a look at social media once in a while.

Man, social media is like friggin' truth serum.  People get behind that profile pic and keyboard and just go buck wild with their nonsense.  Social media shows you all the deep dark places people don't talk about at parties.

And every time I see it, I'm right back in my classroom.  Because that's what I've decided most social media (and much of the mainstream media) is -- a classroom of stubborn, selective-hearing, excuse-making teenagers.  My students give me the same arguments when they are a jerk to someone else.  And they are, often, jerks to each other. Their favorite way to be a jerk is to crack a couple of racially/culturally charged jokes.  It unnerves me to no end, and we wind up in a whole lot of  discussions about self-worth and self-reflection and treating others the way you'd want to be treated.  So to see people with a voice or a platform or a little influence throw some backward thinking out into the world for my students to emulate, I get a little pissed.

So here's my lesson, America, and I'm only going to say it once:

• Rape jokes.  Not funny.
• Slurs -- racial, religious, sexual.  Not funny.
• Mocking the mentally challenged.  Not funny.
• Costuming yourself as a survivor of a horrific tragedy.  Not funny.
• And while we're on costumes... black face.  Not funny.
• Bullying.  Not funny. 

Come on, America.  I need you to think before you speak.  Think before you hit "send".  Think before you do.  Because your kids are watching and learning, and you're creating a whole lot of extra work for me.  And that pisses me off more than just your average stupidity.

Unexpected Thoughts and Panda Bears

There was a time in my life that every talk show, single-girl comedy, post-30 woman seemed to be very concerned about the biological clock.  I'm not very good with clocks.  I've broken 3 with over-enthusiastic snooze buttoning.  I constantly run late, and I never know if I'm springing forward or falling back.  Naturally, I assumed that whatever life clock I was given was probably just not keeping good time.

I love babies.  Love them.  The baby head smell.  The tiny hands and feet.  The snuggling.  

I love toddlers.  The silly games.  The mixed-up vocabulary.  The squeal-giggles.

I love kids.  I even love my junior high kids, weird though they may be.

And I'm great with kids.  All of them.  I love that kids tend to love me.

I also love that all of those children go home at some point.  They're precious, but they're loud.  And I'm sort of selfish and set in my ways.  I was not one of those girls who grew up, planning my wedding and thinking of kids' names.  I assumed, one day, that I would get a job, get a husband, get some kids because that's what just seemed to happen.  But for a dozen different reasons, I never moved past the "get a job" step.

And it's been okay.  Sure, there are moments, watching my friends and their beautiful babies that I feel a little lonely, a bit empty, and I wonder if I'm missing out.  Then, right on cue, someone throws a fit or bites their sister or gets diarrhea, and I take myself home, grateful for the peace and quiet of a carseat-less drive.  

Tonight, I stopped by Target to grab a bag of  "just-in-case" Halloween candy and some shampoo.  As I stood, deciding between Starburst or Snickers, I looked up just in time to see the world's cutest panda bear, staring at me from the grocery cart near the Twizzlers.  She had golden curls and green eyes and her panda bear ears were ever-so-slightly askew.  As I passed by, she grinned a big grin and waved a tiny wave.

It was like a karate chop to the ovaries.

I've never been big on this holiday -- not even as a kid myself.  Face paint and masks freaked me out because I was never sure who was under them, and my indecisive behavior created an entire month of anxiety and arguments with my mom.  So, if there was ever a time for my biological clock to spring forward, I didn't think it would be on Halloween.

Yet there I was, 10 minutes later, browsing for a new conditioner and wondering how bad panda bear diarrhea could really be.

Lovesong

I love music.  I really do.  I love to hear about new artists and find old favorites again.

When I was just a young and impressionable freshman, my friend, Carrie Simpson, helped me fall in love with several non-Clarendon-types of music like The Pixies, The Smiths, Live, and everything U2 had ever done.  Our friendship started with a deep and boundless love for Duke basketball and Christian Laettner.

But then there was also this -- Robert Smith and The Cure.

I don't know what to say except that teenage girls make zero sense most of the time.

I had a long conversation a few weeks ago on social media about cover songs.  Taking something old and familiar and changing it to make it your own.  I think it's so interesting to hear the different ways others find their voice with a piece that inspired them.

The original:

Anyway, as I was cleaning out my music library, I realized that I have FOUR versions of this song.  I think sometimes my obsessions might be unhealthy.  I have several songs in multiple forms in my collection, but I think this is one of my favorites. 

I loved this one from the "50 First Dates" soundtrack.  Makes me want to sip drinks with umbrellas on a beach and fall in hopelessly melodramatic teenage love.

Several people recommended this one to me.  I don't think it will make the cut.  Anberlin's cover makes me feel a little hectic.  Love songs shouldn't be hectic.  They should ooze a little angst.  Or a lot.  Yes.  Maybe lots of angst.

Death Cab for Cutie reminds me most of the original, but there's a tone in there that is displeasing to my non-musically trained ear, like the organ from The Doors.  But much more noticeable.  The unpleasantness fades after a few listens... until the original pops up.

I was fully prepared to call this one my favorite until Adele introduces it by announcing that her mum was mortified when she told her about it.  "You know  how when a young person does an old person's song and they think she's ruined it."  

I'm coming to England soon, Adele.  Watch your back, young 'un.

Fallon and Football

There aren't many things that make me smile/laugh/swoon more than Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake dancing.  Silly is sexy, y'all.

If you haven't seen the latest, here you go:

*swoon*

How Purina Tried to Destroy Me Today

I saw this commercial for the first time this afternoon.

Its power over me was almost worse than the Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials.  I had to really talk myself down from the urge to drive to the pound and adopt the first little three-legged dog I saw.  Or a surfing bulldog. 

Well-played, Purina marketing department.  Well-played, indeed.

Old Failures, New Faces, and First Dates

"Most great people have attained their greatest success just one step beyond their greatest failure.  --Napoleon Hill

This was the quote that our new principal left us with today as we ended our day-long faculty meeting.  And, yes, I did say day-long.  We had a whole-heck-of-a-lot to discuss.  As I drove back to school to finally face the mountains of unpacked boxes, I thought about that quote.

It is hopeful, but it also hurt a bit.  I am glad to have a chance at our greatest success, but it still hurts to have been a part of our greatest failure.  It's difficult to reconcile that one cannot exist without the other, no matter how much we wish it could.

***

As my administrators and I sorted through mounds of leftover supplies and trash last week, we talked about this journey that we are on.  In essence, we're starting a new school, but we're doing so in the span of just a few weeks under chaotic and uncharted circumstances whereas others get a new building and a year or more to plan and settle.  It's overwhelming at minimum, mind-blowing at maximum.  In the four core subject areas (math, science, English, and History), we return 16 teachers from last year; we have 25 new-to-Nichols teachers in those departments.  We had a great deal less turnover in the other subject areas, but we also have 3 brand new assistant principals, 2 new counselors, and 1 entirely new support staff in an unfinished office.

On Tuesday, our faculty joined forces with the other junior high in our network for a training.  When we had to get up and move around to meet new partner, I learned her name, her subject area, and all about what she'd be if she weren't a teacher.  She was so nice and funny, and I was truly glad to have met her.  I only had one problem.

I had to ask, "I'm sorry, but do you teach at Nichols or Shackelford?"  It felt clumsy and embarrassing not to know who taught in my very own school (and it was clear that I wasn't new as I was standing there in my favorite Nichols t-shirt).  There were so many new faces that I haven't met in my own building that I thought I had better check before I spent the next 3 days trying to track her down for a lunch meeting only to discover that she doesn't even work for us.

And she doesn't, by the way.

But plenty of really nice new people do, I've discovered.  I don't think I've had to introduce myself this often at Nichols since I walked into that gym for registration 14 years ago.  Everywhere I turn, there seems to be a new face and a new name, but they are smiling faces who don't seem to mind introducing themselves a dozen times either. I am extremely thankful for my penchant for name memory this year.

***

The meeting today was overwhelmingly positive in its mood and tone.  For the first time in a long time, I felt as though we were making choices that were out of logic as opposed to tradition.  I felt like we were truly making choices that were in the best interest of our students and teachers as opposed to ease.  We examined rules and policies for worth and consistency and chose which fights were most important to us.  And I finally felt our focus begin to shift from our past to our present, with our eyes upon the future.

That was a good feeling.  That was a damn good feeling.

But as any good Nervous Nellie would tell you, I still have my hesitation.  We are pretty unproven at this moment.  The jury is still out.  I've been on dozens of "new staffs" especially through my time camping.  In years past, when people ask me about my new staff, I've been known to say,

"Well, I really like 'em, but I know enough not to get married on the first date."

But with one year to prove ourselves, like it or not, we just might have to.

See y'all at the chapel.

Honesty is the Hardest Policy

People tell you that "honesty is the best policy".  I've always thought those people were full of shit.

Not that I'm a big ol' liar or a cheater, but typically those people saying that are the people who seem least interested in the truth.  They're the types that will ask you how you're doing but never really want more than a "Fine. And you?"  And you know that you're hoping they're fine too.

But lately, I've been thinking.  Why do I really hate that saying?  Sometimes honesty is NOT the best policy.  Guys, if your girl asks you if those pants make her butt look fat, are you really going to say "Absolutely"?  Because if you do, you run a very good chance of not getting those pants (or any other pants) off of her any time soon, and it ain't because they're too tight.  If you don't say those pants are terrible, and she already knows they are, you're screwed too.  (I feel for you, guys.  I really do.  We're a tricky damn bunch.)

So maybe it's not that honesty is the BEST policy.  Maybe it's that honesty -- real honesty -- is the HARDEST policy.  It's as hard to hear that someone feels lousy as it probably is for him to say it.  It's a delicate tightrope to help your girl figure out how those pants increase or decrease her ass size.  It's hard to say "yes" when you really want to say "no".  It's hard to just let your truth out.

Because when you are honest, there's a good chance you're going to hurt someone's feelings.  Honesty can be sharp and abrasive, messy and confusing.  But I've found when I'm not open and forthright, I still feel terrible.  My lies, however small and unassuming, tend to weigh a thousand pounds on my shoulders.  Yet I'm a good Southern girl, and good Southern girls don't make a fuss.  They don't impose upon others.  They make others feel comfortable and at ease.  They are polite and placating.

I'm not a boat rocker by nature anyway, so all the good Southern training and people-pleasing and no-fuss attitude just tends to clump together in a big pile of fibs and falsehoods.  Therefore, I always will tell you "I'm fine" or "I don't need any help" or "It's okay" because I just don't want to hurt your feelings or cause you worry.  I might say that "I don't feel good" because I just don't want to go with you.  I'll stay late or serve on a committee that I hate because I don't want to put it upon others.  And I'll stew and seethe silently instead of just telling you to "Stop it.  That hurts me."

But I'm sort of tired of being polite.  It's all fine and good to be that sweet Southern girl, but it's a short walk from being a good hostess to being a doormat.  So while honesty may be the hardest policy for me, I'm trying really hard to practice it when it's appropriate.  You've been warned.

I won't tell you that your ass looks fat though; that's a lose-lose conversation.

But you might have some spinach in your teeth.

Letting Go

I'm a camp girl.  It's true.  I am.

I am many other things: a teacher, a coach, a daughter, a sister, a friend.

But mostly, I'm just a camp girl.

If you had told me that this is who I would grow up to one day be when I spent my first night at camp 27 years ago, I'd have called you a liar.

I spent four summers as a child at camp.  I had my first "real" job in life as a camp counselor in 1995.  And I've done almost everything in camping for the 17 summers since at both that camp and another.  Until this one.  For the first time in a very, very long time, I didn't spend my first day of summer break playing get-to-know-you games or singing silly songs.

How and why I'm not at any of my 3 camps anymore aren't all that important to this story (and it's a story I've been trying to write for weeks now).  It involves all the regular players in any interesting drama: anger and heartache, power struggles and finger pointing, change and loss.  But the how and why have hurt me and hurt my friends, one after another, for almost a quarter of a century now, and I'm trying to find a way to say goodbye to all that hurt.  I've run out of room for the hurt.

I've been trying to remember all the wonder and magic and memories while letting go of all my bitterness, but it's terribly hard.  They seem to walk hand-in-hand, this love and rage.  And so, each day, I wake up, wishing that I were sitting down in the already-sweltering Texas heat to some biscuits and gravy or a sweet potato muffin or even a corn dog disguised as a pancake pup. 

I took a trip out to my 2nd camp several weeks ago.  I've been trying to write this post since then, and I couldn't find my words.  I think I've been searching for them since the day I last took off my red counselor tie.  Although it's not where I started my camping career, and it's not where I ended it, I have always felt that it was the place I became me.  It's the source of my silliness, my leadership, and my strength.  It gave me my confidence (even though it still fails me at time) and the best friends I could ever know (who never fail me ever). 

There are moments, even now -- 18 summers later -- when I can feel myself standing at the edge of the bridge for the very first time, taking a deep breath, and walking across to change my life.

Sometimes, I don't think of it at all.  And then on other days, I am drowning in nostalgia

• the feel of the wooden benches in Main Lodge
• the sound of the bell at mealtimes
• Flag Medley
• the thrill of finding a friendship rock
• the tepid water of July creek walking
• the rush of the waterfall at Shannah's Lagoon
• the smell of cedar
• the sound of cicadas
• the shake of the swinging bridge
• the blare of the WWII speakers at the slab
• the pop of a bow and the thwack of a bulls-eye
• the pop of Miss Maddie's wooden spoon as you reached for a roll (an obviously unnecessary roll)
• the smell of Miss Linda's homemade cinnamon rolls
• the cool breeze through the chapel
• the singing, the laughter, the tears
• Diet Cokes and picnic tables
• the sweating at Council Fire
• the sweating at lunchtime songs
• the sweating at rest time
• the sweating that began as soon as you got out of the shower
• My God, the sweating.  Always.  The sweating.
• the way Lower Pool completely shredded your toes
• sprinting past RuLoHo at midnight
• Screened in cabins
• Screech Owl
• The Big White Truck
• The lock on the CC
• The sandals in the safe (they're probably still there.  Nobody could open that damn safe.)
• dancing on desktops in the office
• late night programming
• 2 AM all-camp planning
• Montana's cheese fries
• trail rosters
• circle-up
• the Blackmon-Mooring van
• the Live Oak grove
• the Redwood 'Hood
• the Horizmen
• fireworks on the Brazos
• secret campfires at the point
• secret smokes behind the maintenance barn
• Pig-Out Day
• the glare from the road
• the shade of the trails
• dance parties
• kitchen raids
• ice cream on the back porch
• and on and on and on...

So when the invitation came to return for the day, we went.  None of us were sure we wanted to.  The wounds and scars on a few of us are still fresh and tender.  Of course, I was afraid, as always, that Sad and Bitter might hitch a ride too.  But there's safety in numbers, solace in friends, and salvation in letting go. 

And there were new eyes with which to see it, this great and mysterious thing known as Camp.  See, in the 18 years since I made those incredible friends, they've produced more (although smaller) incredible friends.  So we journeyed to our past with little pieces of our future.

It was pretty amazing.

The feeling I got seeing the boys run and play and hike the trails was as close as I've ever gotten to truly remembering what it was like to be new at camp.  Their excitement was infectious, and although we went (begrudgingly) to welcome change, we wound up still celebrating all that we once knew and treasured.

Elliott making his way across the swinging bridge for the first time.
I love the casual hand in the pocket.  No big deal.

A little video of the first crossing of the wiggly bridge. 

Squeals of fear were soon replaced with "I like it now!"

Hayrides up to middle camp.

A little chase outside the new lodge to avoid breaking

something inside the new lodge.

Elliott and Marcus. Destined to be camp buddies.

There's still water in Fall Creek.  It's obviously not July yet.

The new equestrian center.

The new lodge.  

The new office.

Marcus making friends.

Tyler, just dealin' with it.

Kathy, LJ, Elliott, and Courtney.  And a little photobomb by yours truly.

Sweet giggles.

This is the old bell.  It is a fixture in the life of camp.

These are my old friends. They are a fixture in the life of me.

18 years in the blink of an eye.

The new "old" bell.  But still old friends.  They're the best kind, you know.

On the way out, we saw a group of new camp counselors, readying themselves for the beginning of their summer.  They were stationed all along the path out, past the bell, through Main Lodge, and across the swinging bridge.  To each, I wished out loud a happy and safe summer, but inside, I harbored a jealousy so heavy and thick that I struggled to draw my last breaths of that sweet cedar air.

As I turned around for one last look across the creek, across the bridge, across my past, I wondered how it is that I could have given so much only to be just a blip in an 80 year history.  I wondered if in another 18 years, my time there would matter at all.  I wondered how a few hundred acres of sandstone and cedar trees could steal so much of my heart.  I wondered when the memories would come alone, without the hurt.

But as I sit here and write, sweating on my couch with the windows open so I can hear the cicadas buzz,  I remind myself that while camp got the best of me for 17 summers, I also got the best of it for the rest of my life.

And I find myself at the edge, looking at my past as well as my future, taking a deep breath and letting go.

When a Home Becomes a House

In my classroom, we always talk about the power of words, about denotation (the literal meaning of a word) as opposed to the connotation (the emotional effect or appeal) of words.  To begin the lesson, I ask my kids to write down the difference between "house" and "home".  Inevitably, most of my students get it right away.  They'll tell me that a "house" is just walls, a floor, a roof.  But a "home" is all of the things that make this structure into a place of comfort.  "Home" means family and memories and holidays and friends and love and warmth.  A "house" is just a shelter, but a "home" shelters your soul.

One of my best friends has a house around the corner from me in my neighborhood.  At one point, almost all my friends lived in the same neighborhood.  One put down roots first, then another, and another, until finally about 7 years ago, I gave up and moved to the 'hood as well.  Since then, the first moved out, then the next, and now we've arrived at the last.  Laurie got married about a year and a half ago.  She has tried, in vain, to sell her house for 18 long months, and on Monday, she'll close at last.  So tonight, after a very long and tiring day for us both, she still had to go and finish cleaning out all of the things she left so long ago.  She's been working for a week now, with her husband, and she's arrived at the last few things.  You know, those things that clutter the shelves with their sentiment and possible use.  And because she'd do (and has done) the very same thing for me so many times, I walked around the corner for one of the last few times to help her come to a close of a different sort.

See, this is the friend who has constantly been the primary caregiver and ceremonial figurehead for our little group.  Laurie hired us all at camp 17 years ago and eventually became our friend, taking us and all of our twenty-something childishness, letting us crash upon her couches and floors, did our laundry, fed us when we were too poor to eat, blended our margaritas, and helped us figure out how to be adults.  Over the course of those last 15 years, the two houses she's lived in naturally became the gathering point.  Maybe because she had complete sets of silverware or the softest floor or the best blender.  Maybe because we were all so used to doing whatever she said at work that we just let her continue to boss us around outside of it as well.  Either way, her home(s) have always felt like our home(s).  Her first house sold in two days.  She decided on the house around the corner in a spur of the moment, walk in to an open house and "just know" kind of decision.  And the move from the first to the next felt natural.  Her first house was new construction, in a new development, and the only history it held was her own.

But this house, the little house around the corner, is different.  Built in the 20's, it holds several lifetimes of memories.  The abandoned treehouse in the backyard.  The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling in the front bedroom. The concrete engravings.  Sometimes the ghosts of the past would creep past us, not to haunt but to welcome.  As we cleared out bathroom shelves of expired medicine and threadbare towels or made decisions about which pile to put her hundreds of CD's in or questioned where to put her dozens of quilts, I'd stop and look around for a minute.  And I'd wonder.  I'd wonder what ghosts we were leaving behind.

This is the house where we drank hundreds of margaritas.  We shared at least 10,000 laughs and probably half as many tears. 

This is the house where the back porch is famous for Heather leaning back in her patio chair until she eventually/nearly would tip over backward.  Where Courtney's infamous snort-laughs and my infamous cussing, blue-streak rants would ring throughout the neighborhood.  Where Laurie would get the giggles so intensely, we feared she might stop breathing.  Where we ate many meals.  Where we cried many tears.  Where we sat, amidst clouds of mosquito spray and talked the night away more times than I can count.

This is the backyard where Angel (the sweetest-cranky dog ever) ruled the possum population with an iron fist and an equally strong bark.  It's the house where her circus dog, Lady, was taken too soon, and where the world's greatest cat, Mellie, held on too long.  Where Courtney coaxed Sammy and Doodle into her lap so that they could one day live the life of luxury far from the harsh reality of the life of a stray.  The porch where Crisco the cat would make her escape to the great outdoors and the house where she brought home the smelliest kitten with the world's biggest ears to bathe in the sink.  Where Big Sam, the camp dog, made his first big city home after leading a lonely existence on the family ranch.  Where the animals in the house loved Laurie almost as much as we do.

It's the backyard where we talked Laurie into buying a horrendous, inflatable, above-ground swimming pool which we used exactly four times.  They were a pretty fun four times though.  It's the porch where Courtney told us she was pregnant with her first baby.  It's the porch where Heather showed us a picture of the son she had chosen.  It's the porch where Laurie first told us about the man who would someday become her future husband but that she, at the time, viewed only as a friend.  That is until we got the giggles and said, "Girl, that man is flirtin' with you!"  And it's the back porch where I first sat down to decide whether I thought he was good enough for Laurie, and, in turn, if he could put up with all of us who came with her.  Laurie's friends are kind of a package deal.  Turns out that he was, and he could.

It's the birthplace of Girls' Night where we'd place our bets and roll our eyes at the latest season of The Bachelor.  It was the meeting place for a few snow days.  The Lotus Cafe that produced chicken spaghetti, Laurie's "everything but the kitchen sink" salads, and the world's greatest guacamole.  It's housed dozens of birthday cakes, Rock Band parties, and card nights.  It's where we all gathered to pass out Halloween candy to the neighborhood kids.  It's where she held the "EscapeYour Family? Come on Over" Christmas night party.  This is the house where my darling friends threw me a 30th birthday party, special not only for its "Trivial Pursuit: Deana Nazworth Edition" party game but also because it is one of the last times I can remember having my brothers and my mom and dad together with me in a happy and peaceful moment.

It's a place where we stated our opinions and defended our points.  It's a place where sometimes we all argued, and then sometimes had to swallow our pride.  It's been a place to fight but also to forgive.  It's been a place of love and friendship and warmth and comfort.  It was a home, even after we all got our own homes.  It gave shelter, and it sheltered our souls.

Laurie essentially moved out of that house the day she fell in love with her husband, but even after her clothes and shoes and pets found a new address, we'd still gather there, meet for dinner, come back to catch our trashy reality t.v., and sit on the back porch to laugh and snort and rant.  In the last few months, however, we've begun to meet elsewhere, landing at new restaurants or in the backyards of other's homes, including the home that Laurie now shares with Pat.  Not shockingly, no matter where we are, the laughter and love and comfort has gone with us (and we didn't even have to pack it in boxes). 

I'm glad that the stress of selling this house will soon be over for Laurie.  I'm happy that she and Pat are making their new life together (and graciously inviting us all over to build new memories).  That little house around the corner is adding another lifetime to its collection, and for me, the girl who battles change and grips sentiment in her fist, it is bittersweet.  As we packed up tonight, our voices and laughter echoed through this empty shell, and I realized that this is the moment that a "home" becomes a "house", and I said my goodbyes. 

But hopefully for the new owners, we left a little echo inside, a ghost of our strange and wonderful little family of friends who loved this house and the life it all lent us, to whisper a welcome home.

Telephone Tomfoolery

Last night, I got a call from a friend in England.  The call woke me up (although I claimed that it did not, I am sure), to talk about our mutually shared third job.  The third job which I have resisted discussing because I'm just too tired to think that far in advance.  May seems so far away.  So, this afternoon, I had a small rant about how someone so incredibly smart could "STILL NOT UNDERSTAND THIS TIME DIFFERENCE".  I mean, for real, you just subtract like 6, estimate whether a normal working person would be awake, and then decide whether to call or not.

Shortly after my rant, I was scrolling through my recent call list, and I noticed something.  He called me at 8:20 PM.  So... uh... my apologies, Jamie.

8:20 PM.  This is when I was asleep.  There are octogenarians who were up later than I was last night.  Apparently, I'm now "that" person who complains about all of you hooligans calling me up after lights out.  Oh, you hooligans and your telephone tomfoolery.  I shake my tired, gray head at you.

Tonight, my only goal is to make it past 9:00 before hauling my weary ass into bed.  This is not a goal that I'm especially proud of.  And the two celebratory "school's out" vodka tonics I consumed during the Duke game are certainly not helping matters.  They sure did taste nice though.

Spring Break 2012 is off to a... start. 

Woo.

Tim Gunn, Hawaiian Jams, and Amateur Psychology

I am hopelessly addicted to Project Runway.  Hopelessly.

It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail.  Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work".  Still, I enjoy the hell out of it.  And Tim Gunn?  I want him to be my gay Yoda.  I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform.  But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt.  Ever.

The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics.  Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart.  I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama.  I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron.  Oh, that mother-effin' apron.  Black and white toille with a black edging.  Damn you, edging.  Damn you.  By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch.  Seams?  Patterns?  That little wheelie, marking thing?  I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up?  POCKETS??   It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years.  I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.

In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What?  You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared.  No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.

(This is totally my mom, by the way.  Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further.  *sigh*)

The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef".  And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race".  It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures. 

Except "Hoarders".  Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart.  *shudder*

I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however.  Maybe next week's episode.

First Day of School: 2011 Edition

Tomorrow is the first day of school.  Again.

You'd think that after 30 of these the newness of it all would wear off.  It hasn't.  And I fully realize what a huge nerd that makes me.  So be it.  I cannot remember a time when I wasn't a huge nerd; it just took next to forever to accept that fact.

"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms."  Name that movie. 

I wish someone would send me a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils.  I wish I lived in a state that had an actual, visible "fall" season. *sigh*

But the first day is exciting.  As a child, it meant donning my new shoes or grabbing my fancy lunch box (which I would carry once and then eat in the cafeteria for the other 186 days), but as a teacher, it's something different.  It's the beginning of an adventure.  It makes me nostalgic about the past and hopeful for the future.  Anxious but hopeful.

"Remember, Red. Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."

Bonus points for naming that movie (although quoting a prison movie in regard to school is kind of funny).

• I hope my alarm(s) go off in the morning.  My alarm(s) cause me great anxiety.  Specifically my knack for turning off my alarm, hence why I have alarm(s) -- plural.
• I hope I remember my lunch in my brand new lunch box as I rush out the door.  And, yes, I bought myself a brand new lunch box.  It's a hard habit to break.
• I hope I use my lunch box for all (or at least most) of the next 187 school days.  Sucker cost me $9.00. 
• I hope I remember to take roll and take it the right way.  The first days are like no other when it comes to taking roll, and someone is bound to screw it up.  Just please, Lord, don't let it be me.
• I hope I can learn all 120 names in a week or less. 
• I hope they learn mine in a week or less.
• I hope that every kid will understand how to work his locker on the first day/week/month.  This will most likely not happen, so I hope I can keep my deep sighs to a minimum when they ask for help for the 900th time.
• I hope that at least one kid laughs at my corny jokes.
• I hope that I make at least one kid feel more at ease by the time he leaves my room tomorrow.
• I hope that I help them learn to plan.
• I hope that I help them learn to complete.
• I hope that I help them learn to succeed.
• I hope to keep my voice calm and my face blank when I am frustrated with a student.
• I hope that I have the courage to speak up when I am frustrated with a co-worker.
• I hope that I lead by example. 
• I hope that I lend a positive atmosphere throughout my school.
• I hope that my lesson plans are both effective as well as turned in on time.
• I hope to have my good days outnumber the tough days and for the great days to outnumber the good.
• I hope I bought enough paper and supplies to last the year.  I didn't.  I never do, no matter how much I buy.
• I hope I get kids who care and that I can make them care even more.
• I hope that when I get kids who don't care I can make them care even just a little.
• I hope that when I feel like giving up, that I cannot go any further, there's someone to talk me off the ledge.
• I hope for calmer hallways and cooler weather.
• I hope I can see the top of my desk again sometime before Christmas. 
• I hope that I am up for all of the challenges that face me this year. 
• I hope I make the same kind of difference that my own teachers made for me.
• I hope.

Newsflash:

In case you don't live in Texas, or in case you live here but are a hermit, we're having a heat wave.

And it IS a heat wave. And it IS bad.

And if you didn't know it's bad, you should check out my Facebook wall. There are literally dozens and dozens of posts referring to the unholy temperatures. Not to mention the twenty -- I repeat, TWENTY -- pictures of people's car thermostats as visual proof of Mother Nature's Reign of Terror. (That's what I'd name this heat wave if I were a meteorologist here in the Dee Eff Dub because they all name serious, or allegedly serious, weather systems).

Anyway, here's my thought.

Stop it. Seriously. Stop it, Joe Public. Is there nothing more interesting to talk about than the heat? And what are you hoping to accomplish by asking me questions like, "Can you believe this heat?"

Really. What am I supposed to say to that?

Of course I can believe it. I HAVE SKIN DON'T I? Skin that's now melted onto my black leather carseats. Those were a genius idea, by the way.

The passive-aggressive side of me wants to just sit on my car and take pictures of the temperature every hour until others are as annoyed as I. But I won't. Because today, after 10 minutes of back to school shopping, I gave up and found myself writing a post on my wall about the heat. That's when I realized that it might not be people's fault. The heat has literally zapped them of all neurological coherence.

Someone asked me today how we coped at camp all summer. Well, it's like a no-hitter in baseball -- you just don't effing talk about it. Sure it was hot, but when you start assigning actual numbers to it, it worsens by 1000%. I used to work at a camp with no air conditioning. Some of my friends are currently volunteering there now, as I write, during Mother Nature's Reign of Terror. Can you imagine? I hope like Hell they're staying off of Facebook. Talk about irrational rage; there's nothing like being the one to burst the temperature no-talk bubble out there.

So here's my pledge. I will not entertain any more discussions about your disbelief of the heat. I will continue to refuse to post pictures of my car's thermostat. And I will still continue to be friends with all of my heat-zapped friends. No matter how crazy Mother Nature's hold over you may be.

Maybe...

The shitty thing about the past sometimes is that it's never really in the past.

It lingers.  Like a fart in the air.  Or maybe something more poetic, I suppose, but I can't really think of it right now.

It creeps up on you in the most unsuspecting moments.  Like finding a jungle cat in your laundry room.  You turn the corner, minding your own business, and then boom... there it is, growling at you from the spot where you keep your dryer sheets, demanding that you deal with it.

I've felt that way all day.  All week, I guess, but more so today. 

Sometimes it starts with a picture, or a smell, or a song, or a person.  But in that instant, it all comes back to you, carrying with it all the baggage and things you know you should just leave alone because they can't be changed. 

Today, I saw a picture, and all I wanted to do was be 21 again.  With the friends I had when I was 21.  With the same lack of real responsibility.  I laughed so much harder and more often when I was 21, it feels.  Tonight, I heard a song that made me want to be 17 again.  Seventeen and having a crush on a college boy who just wanted to be a cowboy and drink a lot of beer and raise a little hell and look good in a tight pair of jeans.  This morning, I got a whiff of my make-up, and I was 8 years old, watching my mom put on her make-up.  I never noticed how much my makeup smells like hers.  Maybe that's why I continue to buy it and rarely ever use it.  But there I was, eight and safe without any knowledge of all the harsh truths I would know someday.  Back when I thought she had all the answers and I'd never heard her shed a tear.

Nostalgia, that crafty witch, punched me in the gut, and I've yet to recover today.  It left me with a longing in my heart and questions in my mind.  Where would I be today if any of those paths had changed?  Sometimes, I find myself wishing for all the things that could've been.  Some people wish they'd been more responsible and thoughtful in their youth.  Me?  Sometimes I wish I hadn't spent my youth following the rules, guided by fear.  That I'd have let loose, lived impulsively, gone a little crazy.  Traveled to faraway places.  Fallen in love just to be in love.  Gambled away my rent money on a weekend trip to Vegas.  Done the things I wanted to do instead of all those things I needed to do.  Maybe I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night, with the itch to get in the car, without a plan, and just go where the road takes me. 

An itch I'll never scratch, of course, because I'm too old to be impulsive and too young for a mid-life crisis.  Or at least, I think I'm too young for a mid-life crisis.  Oh, shit.  Maybe I'm not.  *sigh*

But I'm sure that if I had done those things, lived my life on the wild side, I may not have become the person that I grew up to be.  And for all my bitching, I do appreciate the life I have now.  Maybe I'd be just as full of regret, just of a different flavor. Maybe it's foolish to entertain such thoughts because 8 and 17 and 21 are just dots in the rearview mirror.

Or maybe I should just re-think that many drinks on a Wednesday night.  Maybe even that's too wild  anymore.  I'm not very practiced, after all.