Just Between Me and Me

 

            I’m linking up this week with Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop. The assignment was to write a letter to my teenaged self. This was fun to write, but I doubt very much that girl would listen to a thing I have to say!

            Hey Vic, got a second? I know you’re in a hurry to get to rehearsal or a Key Club meeting. I want to talk to you about your life now and what’s coming in the next couple of years. There are loads of surprises to come—some good and some bad. But there are a couple of tips I’m going to give you that might make things a little easier along the way.

            First of all, in the second semester of your freshman year they’re going to put a baked potato bar in the school cafeteria. Don’t get hooked on it. You’ll think you’re immune to the “freshman fifteen” because you didn’t gain any weight first semester. You didn’t gain any weight because you were in a musical and dancing a couple of hours a day—and because there was no baked potato bar in the cafeteria. Between baked potatoes and beer, you’re going to “cow out” as Jamie says. Stick with the salad bar. It’s much easier to stay thin than to lose weight.

            While we’re on the subject of weight, you look fantastic. I know you think you’re chubby and flat chested. You’re looking in the warped mirror of a self-conscious seventeen-year-old girl. Trust me when I say, there will be times in your life you’d give anything for the body you have now. Also, stop hating your nose. Just stop it. The love of your life is going to think it’s adorable.

            Make time to learn a duet to sing with Papa in Italian. He loves to sing as much as you do. Your voice is a gift from his branch of the family. It’s would be a shame if you never sing together.

            I’m not going to tell you to work harder in school. You should, but I know you won’t listen to me. If nothing else, PLEASE work harder in French. You can take advanced foreign languages in college to get out of a couple of math classes. Trust me, it’s worth taking the time to study. Believe me, you’ll have a need for French (or Spanish, or Portuguese) more than you’ll have a need Algebra in your life.

            Your oldest child will start talking. He or she (no, I won’t say which) will also learn to read. I promise. That child is as stubborn as you and his dad combined. He or she does everything in his or her own time. Pressure will only slow the kid down. When he or she starts talking and reading, it’s going to blow you away.

            There will come a time of deep sadness in you life. You’ll know what I mean when it happens. You’ll try to get back on your feet and make everyone think you’re okay before you really are. Don’t do it. Let yourself wallow for a little while—just a little while. You can’t go back and wallow later if everyone thinks you’re already fine.

            Don’t worry though. The blessing in your life will far out number the tough times. Listen more than you talk, take long walks, eat your vegetables, don’t sweat the small stuff, and wear sunscreen. 

Teenaged me would never believe I listen to country music. She'd be horrified. 

RDC: Turning the Tables

            This week’s assignment from The Red Dress Club is: “Aaah...jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it. And now we'd like you to write about it. We'll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.”

Turning the Tables

            I played with the ice cubes in my gin and tonic, trying to keep myself from gulping it down. I didn’t want my brain to be fuzzy when I saw Sheila. Our twenty-year high school reunion was coming and like a lot of people I haven’t thought about in years, Sheila “friended” me on Facebook.

Sheila and I were classmates, but not friends. Back then her shiny black hair was styled into a perfect Aqua-netted poof while my brown frizzy curls were always in my face. Tall and slim but curvy, Sheila looked fantastic in a huge array of Jordache jeans and Benetton sweaters. My homemade and hand-me-down clothes did little to hide my short and boyish body. She was never one of those “mean girls” who pick on other girls, but I always felt eclipsed by her. As bookish as I was, I’d have given anything to get the kind of attention she got from boys back then. When Sheila suggested we meet for a drink, I was too curious to say no.

I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I have a few lines around my eyes, but my hair is still brown thanks to L’Oreal and I’ve managed to keep my weight in check. My wardrobe has improved significantly. My clothes are flattering and classic. I still look bookish, but that’s who I am and I’m comfortable with that.

            “Stephie?” Sheila squeals. “I’d know you anywhere!” She wraps me in a hug that seems natural for her and awkward for me.

            “Sheila, it’s so good to see you.” I tell her. “You look great.”

            She’s heavier than she was in high school, but she’s gained weight in all the right places. A number of men in the bar are checking her out (some things never change). She’s wearing a purple silk blouse that reveals a little of her lacy bra when she leans forward and a black skirt cut to make the most of her curves. We sit and she orders a cosmopolitan and then turns to face me, “Tell me everything. Are you married? What do you do for a living? Have any kids?”

            Wow, in thirty-seconds, she’s shown more interest in me than she did in four years of high school. I tell her about my husband and my work as a researcher and writer. It’s a life that I love, but I don’t want to bore her so I turn the tables before she loses interest.

            “How about you Sheila?” I ask. “What’s keeping you busy these days.”

            She tosses back the rest of her Cosmo and signals the bartender for another one. “I sell real estate and I’m doing pretty well,” she tells me. “I had a few rough years after high school, with Dad in the slammer.”

            “Slammer? You mean, like jail?” I ask stupidly. I can picture her father and his extravagant gifts—a diamond tennis bracelet when she turned sixteen and a red Dodge Daytona when she turned seventeen.

            “You didn’t know about that? It made the papers in the early nineties. You were probably away at school. You name a white collar crime, he got nailed for it—tax evasion, embezzlement, fraud.”

            “Sheila, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

            “I’m surprised your folks never told you.”

            “Well, they don’t like to gossip.”

            “True. Very good people your parents.”

            “I didn’t realize you knew them that well.”

            “They let me stay with them when he got taken away. The government seized everything. I had to leave college. Your parents took me in for a couple of weeks until my aunt came and helped me out.”

            “I can’t believe they never told me.”

            “Me neither.  I stayed in your room. I think they even gave me some of your clothes. I’m surprised you never noticed they were missing.”

            “Clothes were never that important to me,” I said thinking how strange my castoffs must have looked on such a fashionable girl.

            “I know. You were so lucky, you know? My Dad thought that love meant buying me stuff. Your parents taught you that clothes weren’t that important. I can’t tell you how jealous I was of you.”

This is a work of fiction. The only bit of truth is my curly brown hair is still getting in my face and I do love a gin and tonic now and then.