I've always really liked surprise parties.
The idea of someone planning something for you that you aren't expecting - everyone putting that kind of effort into it and caring enough to execute it - is appealing on its own, for sure. But I also just love being surprised, and I love surprising people.
When I was 13 years old, my parents threw me a surprise party, and it took me genuinely by surprise. It was a joint party with my grandfather, and I'm not sure I've ever seen so many members of my family in one room at once before or since (even at my wedding). My mom was SO SURE that I had caught on, because of some voicemail that I had overheard, but I had absolutely no clue. My dad took me to the bookstore and when I got back all of these people were at our house! The party itself was nice, but the effort meant more I think.
When I was 16, my parents threw me another surprise party. This time, they were absolutely sure that I didn't suspect a thing. And this time, I was almost certain that it was happening. This was again a family party, but a much smaller affair. I think there might have been 6-8 family members there - most likely just my aunt, uncle, two cousins, my parents, and maybe my grandmother. It was held at my favorite restaurant, though, which was always a treat. It was an Italian place that had the most divine marinara sauce with warm, crusty, fresh bread for dipping that I would have been truly content to live off of. (I was sad when, years later, I went back to the location only to find that the place was gone, replaced by a fast food Mexican restaurant.)
When I was 21, my parents did it again. This time they enlisted my friends at college, but unfortunately that ended up feeling very awkward and confusing. For one, the party was held in late April. My birthday is in July. My parents thought it would be nice to have a party before everyone left for the summer, but what they didn't know (and what my roommate who had been enlisted should have mentioned) is that I was already planning a party for the summer that people were planning to travel for. So my parents expected this party to be a "real" birthday party, but no one except them was thinking of it like that or treating it like that. They were confused as to why no one got me any gifts. I felt crushed that maybe this pre-party would diminish the party I was planning a few months down the line, and I felt angry at my roommate that my parents had gone to significant effort (and spent significant money - they treated a good 18 people to dinner that night) with the expectation that it was to celebrate my birthday.
As it turns out, the party that I had on my actual 21st birthday was fantastic. People traveled to be there and brought gifts and we had a blast.
-----
There's a part of me that feels like surprise parties from my parents didn't count, though. Because part of the appeal of a surprise party is the idea that someone cared enough to take the time to plan it. And I'm lucky enough in my life to be fairly certain of the fact that my parents care about me very much. But having a friend or boyfriend plan a party? That would have been the most amazing thing. (That's not to say that I've never been given surprises of one sort or another, or wonderful, creative gifts. Quite the opposite,and I'm exceedingly grateful for them. But there's still something appealing about a party.)
I've planned a few surprise parties for other people though. My now husband got one last year. My best friend in high school had one for her 16th. I helped when a group of friends in college coordinated one for another friend of mine. And I've always loved giving gifts with some element of surprise to them, or of creativity.
In the end, I've found that as much as I love receiving gifts, I genuinely like giving them more. I know it's a cheesy soundbite of a realization, and I've gotten some amazing gifts and surprises in my life, but there is just nothing like that feeling you get when you know that whatever you thought up and worked on, it was exactly the right thing.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Do you like me? Yes / No / Maybe So
My very first crush was on a boy named Caleb*.
Technically, I was already engaged to marry Marcus, who I had played with many times in my pre-school group. But considering I was in fifth grade now and hadn't heard from Marcus in years, I figured I could consider the engagement null and void.
Caleb was a gregarious sixth grader in my mostly fifth grade class, and he had a remarkable talent for drawing.
Still, I might not have realized he existed had he not randomly been seated next to me for lunch one day.
In elementary school, we were told to line up in our classrooms for lunch, and then we'd be seated in the lunchroom in the exact order we had lined up in originally. Though people usually scrambled to get in line next to their friends, the ordering was still random enough that you could end up near or next to different people each time.
Caleb ended up sitting to my right, mostly talking to his friends. I didn't really have any friends in my class, so I was pretty used to eating my lunch in silence. Usually I had a library book to keep me company while I munched on baby carrots and turkey sandwiches.
To my surprise, though, Caleb included me in the conversation. For a socially outgoing person, including someone in your conversation might not seem like much, but to someone who is shy but desperately wants to connect, it's the biggest gift you can give them. I have no memory of what we talked about - he might have asked about the book I was reading, or simply asked my opinion on a topic that was being discussed - but after that conversation I knew I liked him, and not just liked him, but LIKE liked him.
I mean, what wasn't to like? He was cute, and friendly, and he could draw REALLY well.
I began obsessing. Did he like me back? Could he like me back? Could I find out if he liked me without revealing that I liked him?
Our classroom had 'mailboxes' for each student, where the teacher would pass back graded homework, and one day, I quietly slipped a folded note into Caleb's mailbox.
"Do you like Amy? Yes/Maybe/No"
For days I stewed in nervous excitement and dread. Would he respond? How would he respond? Would he respond to me, or assume the note was from someone else and not know who to respond to?
One day I approached him, and asked him for "an answer to the question". He denied knowing what I was talking about. I was suddenly fearful - did the note get lost? Did I put it in the wrong mailbox? I felt certain that I had taken appropriate precautions, but what if it wasn't enough?
After over a week of my nerves fraying, I approached Caleb during recess.
"Did you get my note? Could you answer the question?"
And suddenly, with a volume and vitriol I hadn't been expecting, he answered. "NO, I DON'T LIKE YOU, OKAY??"
Suddenly, everyone's eyes were on us. It felt like the entire playground had heard him shout at me, and a hot flush crept up my face as the tears started welling up. I ran, blindly, and found a tree on the outskirts of the playground to cry behind.
The next day I came to school, feeling remarkably stoic. Anyone who would shout at me and embarrass me in front of everyone like that is not someone worth liking, I told myself. And surprisingly, I believed it. That incident had been enough to cure me of my crush.
Caleb, on the other hand, suddenly started to show some interest in me. He tried to get my attention, but it didn't sit right. There was something about it that felt false to me - like he wanted to take advantage of my crush on him in some way - but I couldn't pinpoint how. I refused to let him get the best of me, though, and ignored his attempts to talk to me.
This sense that he was trying to toy with me grew even stronger when, after his attempts to get my attention failed, he would complain about it loudly so I could overhear. "Isn't it just the worst when a girl likes you, but then you want to be her boyfriend and she changes her mind?"
Things came to a head when a girl in my class, Annie, approached me at my desk. "Caleb wants you to call him," she said. "I don't want to call him," I replied, crossing my arms, irritated. "He wants you to call him," she repeated, and left a piece of paper with his phone number on my desk.
I stared at that piece of paper for a while and finally picked it up, resolving to call. I won't call for the reason he thinks, though, I thought. I'm going to tell him off for trying to manipulate me. I'm gonna yell at him so hard.
Working up the nerve to call was hard. Although I didn't have a crush on him anymore, I knew the situation was unpredictable, and phone calls to friends were nerve-wracking enough. I didn't know what he was expecting out of the phone call, but I had a bad feeling. Still, I was determined to call him and give him a piece of my mind.
I dialed the number on the slip of paper, my hands shaking. Almost immediately, a woman answers the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, can I speak with Caleb please?"
"Who is this?"
Uhh. She won't know who I am. I don't want her knowing who I am. "A friend."
"Who. Is. This."
"...A friend from school?"
"WHO. IS. THIS."
After a long pause, I finally squeaked out my full name.
"I KNOW YOUR MOTHER, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF." *click*
The next day at school, Caleb came up to me and asked me if I had called him. "No," I said nonchalantly. "It must have been someone pretending to be me." UGH. DUMB. THAT WAS DUMB. I immediately knew I had made a mistake. He knew I had called, and he knew that even if I denied it, people would believe him over me.
In the end, whether he knew for sure or not, he told everyone that I had called him. It felt like the whole class was laughing at me for it, and whatever acquaintances I had quickly became strangers. My instinct that he had been trying to take advantage of my crush had been right, for all the good it had done me.
I'm sure when most kids in fifth grade are told by their parents that they are moving, it's a pretty disappointing or even devastating announcement. For me, it couldn't have been better timing. After feeling on the outside of things for most of my life and being treated like a total pariah for the weeks following my first crush debacle, I was more than ready for a fresh start.
-----
* Names changed to protect whoever.
Technically, I was already engaged to marry Marcus, who I had played with many times in my pre-school group. But considering I was in fifth grade now and hadn't heard from Marcus in years, I figured I could consider the engagement null and void.
Caleb was a gregarious sixth grader in my mostly fifth grade class, and he had a remarkable talent for drawing.
Still, I might not have realized he existed had he not randomly been seated next to me for lunch one day.
In elementary school, we were told to line up in our classrooms for lunch, and then we'd be seated in the lunchroom in the exact order we had lined up in originally. Though people usually scrambled to get in line next to their friends, the ordering was still random enough that you could end up near or next to different people each time.
Caleb ended up sitting to my right, mostly talking to his friends. I didn't really have any friends in my class, so I was pretty used to eating my lunch in silence. Usually I had a library book to keep me company while I munched on baby carrots and turkey sandwiches.
To my surprise, though, Caleb included me in the conversation. For a socially outgoing person, including someone in your conversation might not seem like much, but to someone who is shy but desperately wants to connect, it's the biggest gift you can give them. I have no memory of what we talked about - he might have asked about the book I was reading, or simply asked my opinion on a topic that was being discussed - but after that conversation I knew I liked him, and not just liked him, but LIKE liked him.
I mean, what wasn't to like? He was cute, and friendly, and he could draw REALLY well.
I began obsessing. Did he like me back? Could he like me back? Could I find out if he liked me without revealing that I liked him?
Our classroom had 'mailboxes' for each student, where the teacher would pass back graded homework, and one day, I quietly slipped a folded note into Caleb's mailbox.
"Do you like Amy? Yes/Maybe/No"
For days I stewed in nervous excitement and dread. Would he respond? How would he respond? Would he respond to me, or assume the note was from someone else and not know who to respond to?
One day I approached him, and asked him for "an answer to the question". He denied knowing what I was talking about. I was suddenly fearful - did the note get lost? Did I put it in the wrong mailbox? I felt certain that I had taken appropriate precautions, but what if it wasn't enough?
After over a week of my nerves fraying, I approached Caleb during recess.
"Did you get my note? Could you answer the question?"
And suddenly, with a volume and vitriol I hadn't been expecting, he answered. "NO, I DON'T LIKE YOU, OKAY??"
Suddenly, everyone's eyes were on us. It felt like the entire playground had heard him shout at me, and a hot flush crept up my face as the tears started welling up. I ran, blindly, and found a tree on the outskirts of the playground to cry behind.
The next day I came to school, feeling remarkably stoic. Anyone who would shout at me and embarrass me in front of everyone like that is not someone worth liking, I told myself. And surprisingly, I believed it. That incident had been enough to cure me of my crush.
Caleb, on the other hand, suddenly started to show some interest in me. He tried to get my attention, but it didn't sit right. There was something about it that felt false to me - like he wanted to take advantage of my crush on him in some way - but I couldn't pinpoint how. I refused to let him get the best of me, though, and ignored his attempts to talk to me.
This sense that he was trying to toy with me grew even stronger when, after his attempts to get my attention failed, he would complain about it loudly so I could overhear. "Isn't it just the worst when a girl likes you, but then you want to be her boyfriend and she changes her mind?"
Things came to a head when a girl in my class, Annie, approached me at my desk. "Caleb wants you to call him," she said. "I don't want to call him," I replied, crossing my arms, irritated. "He wants you to call him," she repeated, and left a piece of paper with his phone number on my desk.
I stared at that piece of paper for a while and finally picked it up, resolving to call. I won't call for the reason he thinks, though, I thought. I'm going to tell him off for trying to manipulate me. I'm gonna yell at him so hard.
Working up the nerve to call was hard. Although I didn't have a crush on him anymore, I knew the situation was unpredictable, and phone calls to friends were nerve-wracking enough. I didn't know what he was expecting out of the phone call, but I had a bad feeling. Still, I was determined to call him and give him a piece of my mind.
I dialed the number on the slip of paper, my hands shaking. Almost immediately, a woman answers the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, can I speak with Caleb please?"
"Who is this?"
Uhh. She won't know who I am. I don't want her knowing who I am. "A friend."
"Who. Is. This."
"...A friend from school?"
"WHO. IS. THIS."
After a long pause, I finally squeaked out my full name.
"I KNOW YOUR MOTHER, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF." *click*
The next day at school, Caleb came up to me and asked me if I had called him. "No," I said nonchalantly. "It must have been someone pretending to be me." UGH. DUMB. THAT WAS DUMB. I immediately knew I had made a mistake. He knew I had called, and he knew that even if I denied it, people would believe him over me.
In the end, whether he knew for sure or not, he told everyone that I had called him. It felt like the whole class was laughing at me for it, and whatever acquaintances I had quickly became strangers. My instinct that he had been trying to take advantage of my crush had been right, for all the good it had done me.
I'm sure when most kids in fifth grade are told by their parents that they are moving, it's a pretty disappointing or even devastating announcement. For me, it couldn't have been better timing. After feeling on the outside of things for most of my life and being treated like a total pariah for the weeks following my first crush debacle, I was more than ready for a fresh start.
-----
* Names changed to protect whoever.
Full and Empty
My memories of childhood are mostly pretty hazy.
In most ways, I had a very privileged childhood - I had great parents, lived in a good neighborhood, and if we had to worry about money, I never knew about it. I was an only child, and while I don't think I was spoiled, I was definitely lucky. I had toy cars on toy racetracks, several Barbies, a trunk full of dress-up clothes, and tons of Play-Doh. My mom got me a Cabbage Patch Doll, though I can't say I ever asked for it or played with it. Mostly, I preferred arts and crafts or reading. I read my first book at the age of three and from then on couldn't get enough. A friend got a Nintendo Entertainment System and I couldn't get enough of it, and one Christmas it showed up under the 2 and a half foot plastic tree we decorated every year. My mom took me to nature centers, karate lessons (once), gymnastics lessons (many times), and even horseback riding until we couldn't afford it anymore.
At the same time - while I have plenty to be grateful for, my childhood didn't feel like a carefree one. I always had problems finding friends, and the friendships I had always seemed difficult or one-sided. In my neighborhood, there was Claudia*, who could be very fun but also pretty manipulative, and there was Emily, who was three years younger than me and who I played with most often but who I never really felt close to. No one else would give me the time of day. At school, my best friend Mary had her own best friend. It wasn't me, and I don't recall Mary ever coming over to play.
I remember one time, there was a new girl at school. I don't know if she approached me or if I, shy as I was, managed to introduce myself to her. Either way, by the end of the day, we were friends. I was so excited that I wrote a poem about how I'd made a new friend and proudly read it to my parents when I got home from school.
The next day, she found the popular girls and it was like I had never existed.
I'm not exactly sure why I don't remember much about my childhood. Maybe my memory is just not the best. Mostly though, I suspect it's because I didn't think there was much worth remembering. My childhood felt both very full and very empty. I never lacked for things to do, but I often felt pretty lonely doing them.
I do remember my first house. The memories are pretty fuzzy because we moved when I was 11, but I remember it was a split level with lots of brown and orange and mustard yellow leftover from previous owners. The basement had a room I called the "map room" because my dad had wallpapered a giant map of the world along one wall. That room had a ping pong table and my parents would stash things under it and call it our "attic". My dad's brown couch from his bachelor days was in the basement with the NES, along with a hexagonal poker table that he'd occasionally invite friends over to play cards on.
I spent a lot of time on the screened-in porch, which overlooked our big, fenced-in backyard. I had a little PlaySkool bench where I colored and painted.
The backyard had lots of trees in it - so many that the ground had a permanent carpet of dead leaves all-year-round. I remember attempting to rake them all up once, but when it took me over an hour to get even a 2 square meter spot cleared, I gave up. That spot became my imaginary house, which I carpeted with moss and kept relatively clear of leaves, at least for a little while. There was a wood swingset to play on and a rope hammock to lay in and look at the tops of the trees or read a book. One time I asked for a zipline as a birthday present and my parents strung it up between two trees - though it didn't take long to realize that there wasn't much zipping to be found when the trees were so close together and you had to lift your feet above your waist to get any airtime.
The front yard was less remarkable, though there was a small maple tree with bright red leaves. In part as a tribute to my paternal grandfather who used to grow tomatoes in his yard, my mom often liked to grow cherry tomatoes and flowers in the front yard.
Strangely, I remember almost nothing about my bedroom. I know it had lacy curtains that I hated. I think it had yellow walls, and my comforter was clown-themed. But I don't remember spending all that much time in there. For some reason it never really felt like "mine", it was just the place where I slept. Maybe that's why I was always trying to carve out my own spaces in other places, like the backyard or the basement. Or maybe the intense need for my own space became more pronounced when I was a preteen. But at a time when my peers were so cold, that house always felt open and warm to me, with all kinds of nooks and crannies and hidden spots that I could make my own.
-----
* Names changed to protect whoever.
In most ways, I had a very privileged childhood - I had great parents, lived in a good neighborhood, and if we had to worry about money, I never knew about it. I was an only child, and while I don't think I was spoiled, I was definitely lucky. I had toy cars on toy racetracks, several Barbies, a trunk full of dress-up clothes, and tons of Play-Doh. My mom got me a Cabbage Patch Doll, though I can't say I ever asked for it or played with it. Mostly, I preferred arts and crafts or reading. I read my first book at the age of three and from then on couldn't get enough. A friend got a Nintendo Entertainment System and I couldn't get enough of it, and one Christmas it showed up under the 2 and a half foot plastic tree we decorated every year. My mom took me to nature centers, karate lessons (once), gymnastics lessons (many times), and even horseback riding until we couldn't afford it anymore.
At the same time - while I have plenty to be grateful for, my childhood didn't feel like a carefree one. I always had problems finding friends, and the friendships I had always seemed difficult or one-sided. In my neighborhood, there was Claudia*, who could be very fun but also pretty manipulative, and there was Emily, who was three years younger than me and who I played with most often but who I never really felt close to. No one else would give me the time of day. At school, my best friend Mary had her own best friend. It wasn't me, and I don't recall Mary ever coming over to play.
I remember one time, there was a new girl at school. I don't know if she approached me or if I, shy as I was, managed to introduce myself to her. Either way, by the end of the day, we were friends. I was so excited that I wrote a poem about how I'd made a new friend and proudly read it to my parents when I got home from school.
The next day, she found the popular girls and it was like I had never existed.
I'm not exactly sure why I don't remember much about my childhood. Maybe my memory is just not the best. Mostly though, I suspect it's because I didn't think there was much worth remembering. My childhood felt both very full and very empty. I never lacked for things to do, but I often felt pretty lonely doing them.
I do remember my first house. The memories are pretty fuzzy because we moved when I was 11, but I remember it was a split level with lots of brown and orange and mustard yellow leftover from previous owners. The basement had a room I called the "map room" because my dad had wallpapered a giant map of the world along one wall. That room had a ping pong table and my parents would stash things under it and call it our "attic". My dad's brown couch from his bachelor days was in the basement with the NES, along with a hexagonal poker table that he'd occasionally invite friends over to play cards on.
I spent a lot of time on the screened-in porch, which overlooked our big, fenced-in backyard. I had a little PlaySkool bench where I colored and painted.
The backyard had lots of trees in it - so many that the ground had a permanent carpet of dead leaves all-year-round. I remember attempting to rake them all up once, but when it took me over an hour to get even a 2 square meter spot cleared, I gave up. That spot became my imaginary house, which I carpeted with moss and kept relatively clear of leaves, at least for a little while. There was a wood swingset to play on and a rope hammock to lay in and look at the tops of the trees or read a book. One time I asked for a zipline as a birthday present and my parents strung it up between two trees - though it didn't take long to realize that there wasn't much zipping to be found when the trees were so close together and you had to lift your feet above your waist to get any airtime.
The front yard was less remarkable, though there was a small maple tree with bright red leaves. In part as a tribute to my paternal grandfather who used to grow tomatoes in his yard, my mom often liked to grow cherry tomatoes and flowers in the front yard.
Strangely, I remember almost nothing about my bedroom. I know it had lacy curtains that I hated. I think it had yellow walls, and my comforter was clown-themed. But I don't remember spending all that much time in there. For some reason it never really felt like "mine", it was just the place where I slept. Maybe that's why I was always trying to carve out my own spaces in other places, like the backyard or the basement. Or maybe the intense need for my own space became more pronounced when I was a preteen. But at a time when my peers were so cold, that house always felt open and warm to me, with all kinds of nooks and crannies and hidden spots that I could make my own.
-----
* Names changed to protect whoever.
Diaries and Memories
I've often kept diaries in the past, but I haven't often kept up with them.
In middle school I had a small diary with a lock and key. (Let me just first say that no matter how young you are, I don't understand how you're supposed to do any significant writing when the pages aren't much bigger than your hand. It's uncomfortable to write on and much easier to lose your train of thought when a single paragraph can easily span a few pages.) I never got more than a few entries written.
In high school I started writing in a larger diary, with no lock. This lasted a few more entries than the previous one, but was also ultimately abandoned.
In college, I had an Open Diary account, which later migrated to Livejournal. This is probably the most I've ever written in a diary in my life, but my record of posting updates was spotty at best.
I realized today that part of my reluctance to write is that everything I want to write about that seems "diary-esque" seems, well, mundane... and everything else seems like stuff that I have no authority to write, really. I don't know much about very much, and the things I know a lot about, I still don't feel confident in my ability to post declarations and have them hold up to scrutiny.
But I still have the desire to express myself, and I realized today that there is one thing I know very well - myself. That's not to say I know myself perfectly. But I probably know myself better than anyone else does.
I've never really written about my memories because part of writing for me is wanting someone else to read. (This is probably why online diaries worked so much better for me than hand-written ones.) And I've always sort of felt that no one would really be interested in my memories, so why bother writing them? I haven't done anything particularly remarkable in my life.
But I like reading about other people's memories, so I guess it stands to reason that someone could enjoy reading about mine. Maybe even me, someday when even more of my memories have faded or been replaced by new ones.
-----
That's a VERY long pre-amble to my purpose here, which is to start writing down my memories - and really, anything else that strikes me as worth writing. But I think I'll be focusing more on memories - and my own thoughts about them - because usually writing about the here and now feels temporary. I don't know what things will be important to me until they still are years later.
And my first memory seems like an appropriate place to start, so here goes.
-----
I think I have an earlier memory than this one - my 3rd birthday. But since that memory is just of me receiving a plastic electric-blue belt as a birthday gift - and many years later, of my mom denying that they ever gave me a plastic blue belt until I unearthed a photo of said gift being given - it seems sort of unremarkable. (Except - who gives a plastic belt to a three year old as a birthday gift? I think even then I was mystified as to what I could possibly ever use it for.)
But my first substantial memory is from when I was five years old.
I was friends with a girl who lived down the street, Claudia*. She was a year younger than I was, but also very excellent at getting me to do what she wanted me to do. In later years, she would threaten to 'un-invite' me to her birthday party unless we played the games that she wanted to play. She also seemed to have an endless number of friends she could replace me with if I didn't comply to her whims, so I tended to follow along for the most part.
We were playing in front of my parent's suburban split-level house one warm summer day, when I had a brilliant idea. Claudia always won all of the games, even the ones that you couldn't win at. (Or so it seemed at the time, anyway.) What if I suggested a race that I knew I could win? Claudia had her tricycle with her, and despite their similarities to bicycles, anyone who had ever ridden a trike knows that they are really darn slow.
"Claudia - let's race! You ride your tricycle, and I'll run! First to the top of the driveway wins." To my surprise, she agreed. I felt a twinge of guilt - I was proposing a race that I knew I would win - but she DID agree, after all. It wasn't MY fault if she agreed to a race that I would clearly win at. And it was my turn to win at something, right?
"Ready - set - GO!" I took off running up the driveway. I was winning, easily. I felt so confident, so happy.
And then I tripped.
I'm pretty sure my mom had a heart attack from how loudly I was crying. I had essentially skidded on concrete, knee-first, and my left knee was pretty much an open wound. She took me into our mustard-yellow, 70's throwback kitchen and sprayed my knee with antiseptic, then gave me a giant bandage. But I was still upset at the unfairness of it all. It was a race I could have won, but Claudia won the race after all, because I got overconfident. More frustratingly than that, I actually felt like - for a split second - I was in control of the situation, a rare occurrence when playing with Claudia. And then I miscalculated, and that control was gone.
I still have that scar on my knee today, though it's significantly smaller than my memory of the original injury. And it's interesting, I think, that even though it's probably the scar of the injury that helps keep the memory alive, the thing I remember most vividly about it isn't the part where I skinned my knee, but those moments right before I fell, where I felt free and alive and in control.
-----
* Names changed to protect whoever.
In middle school I had a small diary with a lock and key. (Let me just first say that no matter how young you are, I don't understand how you're supposed to do any significant writing when the pages aren't much bigger than your hand. It's uncomfortable to write on and much easier to lose your train of thought when a single paragraph can easily span a few pages.) I never got more than a few entries written.
In high school I started writing in a larger diary, with no lock. This lasted a few more entries than the previous one, but was also ultimately abandoned.
In college, I had an Open Diary account, which later migrated to Livejournal. This is probably the most I've ever written in a diary in my life, but my record of posting updates was spotty at best.
I realized today that part of my reluctance to write is that everything I want to write about that seems "diary-esque" seems, well, mundane... and everything else seems like stuff that I have no authority to write, really. I don't know much about very much, and the things I know a lot about, I still don't feel confident in my ability to post declarations and have them hold up to scrutiny.
But I still have the desire to express myself, and I realized today that there is one thing I know very well - myself. That's not to say I know myself perfectly. But I probably know myself better than anyone else does.
I've never really written about my memories because part of writing for me is wanting someone else to read. (This is probably why online diaries worked so much better for me than hand-written ones.) And I've always sort of felt that no one would really be interested in my memories, so why bother writing them? I haven't done anything particularly remarkable in my life.
But I like reading about other people's memories, so I guess it stands to reason that someone could enjoy reading about mine. Maybe even me, someday when even more of my memories have faded or been replaced by new ones.
-----
That's a VERY long pre-amble to my purpose here, which is to start writing down my memories - and really, anything else that strikes me as worth writing. But I think I'll be focusing more on memories - and my own thoughts about them - because usually writing about the here and now feels temporary. I don't know what things will be important to me until they still are years later.
And my first memory seems like an appropriate place to start, so here goes.
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I think I have an earlier memory than this one - my 3rd birthday. But since that memory is just of me receiving a plastic electric-blue belt as a birthday gift - and many years later, of my mom denying that they ever gave me a plastic blue belt until I unearthed a photo of said gift being given - it seems sort of unremarkable. (Except - who gives a plastic belt to a three year old as a birthday gift? I think even then I was mystified as to what I could possibly ever use it for.)
But my first substantial memory is from when I was five years old.
I was friends with a girl who lived down the street, Claudia*. She was a year younger than I was, but also very excellent at getting me to do what she wanted me to do. In later years, she would threaten to 'un-invite' me to her birthday party unless we played the games that she wanted to play. She also seemed to have an endless number of friends she could replace me with if I didn't comply to her whims, so I tended to follow along for the most part.
We were playing in front of my parent's suburban split-level house one warm summer day, when I had a brilliant idea. Claudia always won all of the games, even the ones that you couldn't win at. (Or so it seemed at the time, anyway.) What if I suggested a race that I knew I could win? Claudia had her tricycle with her, and despite their similarities to bicycles, anyone who had ever ridden a trike knows that they are really darn slow.
"Claudia - let's race! You ride your tricycle, and I'll run! First to the top of the driveway wins." To my surprise, she agreed. I felt a twinge of guilt - I was proposing a race that I knew I would win - but she DID agree, after all. It wasn't MY fault if she agreed to a race that I would clearly win at. And it was my turn to win at something, right?
"Ready - set - GO!" I took off running up the driveway. I was winning, easily. I felt so confident, so happy.
And then I tripped.
I'm pretty sure my mom had a heart attack from how loudly I was crying. I had essentially skidded on concrete, knee-first, and my left knee was pretty much an open wound. She took me into our mustard-yellow, 70's throwback kitchen and sprayed my knee with antiseptic, then gave me a giant bandage. But I was still upset at the unfairness of it all. It was a race I could have won, but Claudia won the race after all, because I got overconfident. More frustratingly than that, I actually felt like - for a split second - I was in control of the situation, a rare occurrence when playing with Claudia. And then I miscalculated, and that control was gone.
I still have that scar on my knee today, though it's significantly smaller than my memory of the original injury. And it's interesting, I think, that even though it's probably the scar of the injury that helps keep the memory alive, the thing I remember most vividly about it isn't the part where I skinned my knee, but those moments right before I fell, where I felt free and alive and in control.
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* Names changed to protect whoever.
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