Do you ever have those moments when you look back on your life and think, "Damn, I wish I was 16 again. I would have kicked life's ass if I knew then what I know now"?
No? Maybe you didn't hate high school as much as I did, then. (And when I say I hated it, I mean that my heart still races--in a bad way--when I walk into a high school...any high school. The trauma's almost as bad as what the orthodontist did to me. There is literally no one else in the world that made me cry as much in middle school as that terrible man did.)
Anyway, I have these moments where I look back and wish I'd come into my own a little sooner. You know, more confident, more accepting of self, more of a presence around others.
I'm thinking of this because my cousin Aimee (who you will read a post from this weekend!) sent me her piece today. In it, she talks about how long it took her to finally write a novel, and how much she wishes she'd done it sooner. Similarly, I look back on my high school years, and I think: Why was I so quiet? Why did I let people ignore me? Why did I get so stressed by things that mattered so little? Don't get me wrong, I wasn't bullied. The closest it came to that was one time when a girl in my homeroom made fun of my pants because they were wrinkled. (After which point I ironed every piece of clothing I wore until I got to college. Even though I was--and continue to be--completely inept at ironing.) I wasn't getting tons of negative attention. I was getting little to no attention at all.
Last year, I went to my ten year high school reunion. Needless to say, I was nervous as I walked up to the welcome desk. I went by myself--without my best friends from that era in tow. It was a last-minute decision, one that I was still a little unsure about as I signed in. In the days leading up to the reunion, I had seriously considered backing out. Who would I see there that I didn't already keep in touch with? I'd thought. Surely, there was no point in going.
Well, eventually, curiosity (or pride) won out, and I showed up to the Republic at a time I deemed late enough to not be the first arrival in a cute black dress and obnoxiously bright pink tights. (Probably a poor fashion choice, but whatever--I was bolder now, and I was going to show them!) The evening started tenuously, but eventually I latched on to a few people I knew back in the day, and things took off from there. The "cool kids," of course, stuck to their ranks, but the rest of us--the ones who represented 90%+ of the party--thoroughly enjoyed catching up. By the end of the night, I was dancing with people I had potentially never spoken a word to in high school, chatting for half an hour with the girlfriend of a guy I took English III with, awkwardly listening to someone tell me they had a crush on me in high school (I knew; I was not interested), and throwing a line at someone else who played baseball with my brother.
"I don't remember you," he said.
"Well, I wasn't this cute in high school," I suggested.
(Yes, I am still embarrassed that I said that. My mouth still tastes like sleaze, a year later.)
He wasn't the only one who didn't remember me. One woman introduced herself and asked me if I'd graduated from our high school.
"Yeah, class of '03," I said.
"Oh, well, I was only at our school part-time," she proposed. "I didn't know everybody."
You knew me, I wanted to say, because I went to the other school, too. We rode the bus there together every day for at least a year. But eh, not worth my time. Plus, she was probably just too intimidated by my newfound confidence and beauty and hot pink tights to admit that she remembered me. Yeah, that's what we'll say.
It took me until my first year of college to really force myself to speak up in class and social situations, and it wasn't until I graduated from college that I really came into my own. People now still describe me as quiet, but I don't see the quiet as imprisoning anymore. It's more of a personal style now. I'm not one to run at the mouth because I've found that people listen more when you talk less. (Also, I run out of things to say and then look stupid. But the first thing sounds wiser.)
Take for instance this afternoon.
Every day for twenty minutes, I stand next to the playground equipment and supervise the kids in that area during their recess time. There is one specific group that runs a particularly intense and heated game of tag each day, and today was no exception. About halfway through recess, there was a surprise attack on the equipment. The student labeled "it" came from behind and tagged an unsuspecting player waiting by the fire pole.
"FUCK!" he shouted.
Needless to say, everyone within earshot turned and looked at me all at the same time.
And so, faced with a thankfully rare situation, I looked up at him where he stood--frozen with guilt--and silently beckoned him with my index finger. My face was blank. At best, disappointed.
"I said, frick," he tried to claim unconvincingly, when he got to me.
"I heard the word you said loud and clear. Take a seat on the bench."
And he sat. And he cried.
In fact, he was still crying when he walked up to my desk two hours later with an thick letter-size envelope in his hand that I'd left on his desk. The kind of envelope that gets sent home when you get a detention...or worse.
"I'm so worried," he said, face red and puffy, holding up the envelope. Terrified was more like it.
"Go on," I prompted. I then pointed to the envelope in his hand (unbeknownst to him, a copy of his updated academic accommodations). "Keep in mind that the envelope you're holding in your hand was given to me this morning and has nothing to do with recess."
"It's not about that," he continued, relieved for only a second before falling back into tears and intermittently pushing the hair back from his face. "It's really bad. Am I going to get suspended? It was just an accident. I really meant to say frick. I promise."
By this time, I hadn't breathed a word of the incident to anyone. At recess, I had planned on emailing his parents about it, but at this point, I rethought that plan. Clearly, he'd done a number on himself all on his own. Half a recess and two hours of intensive worrying turned out to be more bang for my buck than I'd anticipated. So, still straight-faced, I gave him the verdict.
"I understand that it was an accident, which is why you're not getting suspended. I won't email your parents, so long as you understand that this can never happen again, accidentally or purposefully. I recommend avoiding the word frick as well, as it creates bad habits and puts you in danger of saying the real thing. And if it ever does happen again, things will be bad."
"Okay," he said. "Yeah. No. I'll never do it again. I promise. Never."
...Where was that girl in high school?!
Imagine how that wrinkled pant situation would have gone...
"Your pants are wrinkled. Don't you own an iron?"
"I do, but I have other priorities. Thank you for your input."
How am I twenty-nine, and only just now realizing the power of not sweating the small stuff? Of not letting people get under your skin?
When a kid rolled his eyes at me today, I didn't blink twice.
"You do realize that rolling your eyes is a form of disrespect, right? And you also realize that I am currently asking you to redo this question on your quiz so that you can earn those points, right? Because you're totally welcome to ignore me and lose the points. It's no skin off my back."
Of course, there are probably people in their 30s and 40s and 50s and 60s and all the way up to the oldest human alive that are wondering how they're only just now getting a handle on something or other. I suppose that's the way life is: you learn things, and you imagine what it would've been like if you'd learned them sooner, and then you hope to God your progeny figures it out faster.
So the question I'm left with then is this: What shouldn't I waste my time on? What am I going to wish--fifteen years from now--that I'd started ages before?
Aimee thinks I need to get on with writing a book already. Maybe she's right.
Write on!
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