From the man I sent it to, I just received a letter I wrote in 1979 to my now-lifelong college friend; a break-my-heart-and-simultaneously-fill-my-heart-with-love friend, and for the length of time it took to read it – and still as I write – I became that same brokenhearted 20-year-old girl.
Since that letter was written, every emotion/interaction that he and I have shared over the last 40+ years just flooded my system, and I am a puddle of tears and beyond freaked. The irony?
Over the past few years, with the thought being that sending letters back to the people who wrote them would offer a better understanding of where they were at certain points in their lives, I have done precisely that. I had no idea what I may have been doing to their psyches.
Sequestered in a guest bedroom upstairs, I hear her go back and forth, back and forth, from bedroom to kitchen, kitchen to bedroom, looking for me, looking for Andy, looking for a treat or, like her Mama, forgetting why she went into the other room to begin with.
Masked and gloved, as if either will do any good at this point, I cautiously walk halfway down the stairs, catch her eye and make a “come on” hand signal. She doesn’t come on. Back and forth…the stuff of a dog owner’s guilt.
This can be added to the many previously untold stories of Covid isolation.
I decided to take some time and do some introspection. It only yielded more questions, one of which is:
Why can I watch every episode of ER dozens of time, but can count on one hand the number of times I’ve reread a book?
I’ve checked under the couch cushions, between the passenger door and front seat in my car, and even in the refrigerator in case I mindlessly left it there but, no matter where I’ve looked, I can’t find where I lost my ability to sleep. Am guessing it’s in my late 40s but how to get back there…
From the “I’m-Afraid-This-Really-Just-Happened” Department:
Husband, about to head out.
Me: Happy…happy?…Happy Judy’s Birthday to you.
Me: How old would she have been? She was born in… ’51?
Husband: She was 10 years older than you so…
Me: (interrupting) No, that’s Jan.
Me (interrupting): She’s SEVENTY? That can’t be.
Husband: You just said…
Me (interrupting): She’s 7 years older than me. So she would have been…68!?
Andy: You’re 62, dear. So she was born in ’52 and would have been 69.
Me: Oh, just take your math and go!
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Judy. I trust this amused you.
Found this from 2016:
I just pulled a straw out of the box. Sometimes a girl gets tired of spilling on herself, but I digress…On the box is written: Everyday Flexible Straws. As opposed to…? “Honey, we’ve got company. Break out the good straws.”
Even though I am the 6th of 9 children, I have always managed to be the baby of the family.
“Done FOR you, not TO you” is how we may find gratitude in shit that has befallen us. It doesn’t negate that it was shit, but it keeps one’s mind from imploding.
7 years ago, a friend challenged me to list three things most people didn’t know about me. As an open book, I had to dig. I uncovered the following:
1. When I was a child, I had telepathic conversations with my sister Judy on a regular basis. When I was in 3rd grade, she gave me a book called “Hidden Channels of the Mind.” It scared the telepathy out of me for a couple of years.
2. I had 8 siblings, all of whom were overachievers and I was just an achiever, so thought I lacked intelligence. That wasn’t the case but I didn’t find out until I left my hometown and my circle of friends didn’t know my siblings to compare me to – or perhaps it was I who stopped doing the comparisons.
3. In college, I took an autobiography class and the first line I wrote was, “I am at the pre-fame stage of my career.”
I get so irritated when, to prove I’m not a robot, I am asked the security question: What day comes after Monday?