Another day has gone by, and I’ve been overlooked yet again.
When she grabbed for me a couple of days ago, I nearly burst at the seams from excitement. But then I nearly burst at the seams when she tried me on. I guess I don’t quite fit the way I used to. Maybe I shrank in the wash. She just tossed me aside, half-way inside out. I felt so exposed.
My mother used to say “you’ll be put on one leg at a time just like everybody else.” But I always thought I could do better than that. These days, I’d settle for just being worn on one leg. Or at least to be folded up in a drawer with some dignity.
Some days, I wish I could just pick myself up off the floor.
So the Monday Mission for this week was to write a post in the style of a diary entry.
I used to keep journals. I wrote really often when I was 17 through 20. I still have all those books, lined up on a bookshelf next to my bed. I don’t really look at them, and certainly never read them. I largely forget their existence. But for the assignment I thought “wouldn’t it be funny to post a real journal entry?” So I went and had a look last night. I picked up a few of the journals, and flipped through them, looking for something entertaining. I tell you, I am slightly scarred from the experience. At 17, I was insecure about my looks and my self-worth, wasting time and energy dieting and suffering from unrequited affections. And I took myself way, way too seriously.
I can say that, without doubt, I like myself much more than I did back then. I wouldn’t go back for anything. I’ll take 37 over 17 any day.