I'm going to start carrying a little notepad with me at all times. Often my mind is overrun with things I want to write about, dreams I want to share, questions I want to pose. But often when I have time to sit in front of my computer and actually write these things down my mind has been exhausted of it's inspirations, dwindled away in the drone of excel worksheets and check requests.
As a little girl I always swore I would never let the world make me old, I never understood how adults could enjoy life without scraping their knees after a fall off a bicycle, or sticky fingers after engulfing your favorite treat from the ice cream truck. I swore I would never have a boring job that I had to sit in an office all day. I was going to love life.
I find myself losing grip on that ideal. Through different trials and storms I've lost the desire to live a life I love. Instead I've become focused on "growing up" and "being successful". These things aren't bad in themselves, no. But my definitions have changed.
"Growing up" used to mean becoming taller than the neighbor boys so that when they would pick on me, maybe, just maybe I could push them over. I wasn't the most delicate young lady in the world, I knew how to start a fight, and how to finish one. Scars were trophies and a little dirt never hurt. From the time schoolwork was done to the time the sun was setting the world outside my front door became mine. No boundaries could keep me back, imagination so strong that a tree turned into a pirate ship that I captained, warding off the swarthy ruffians who dare challenge Christina the Kid.
I made friends. The girl down the street was the first friend to invite me to her house. My mom watched as I made the voyage four houses down. The first time felt like an eternity. The second time my feet found their familiar rhythm. Several times and I didn't even look behind me to see my mom almost teary-eyed. I was six. I didn't know that was one of my first steps into growing up. Independence. Something that even at that tender age I ached for. I wanted to know who I could be, what I could do, on my own. Eventually that back and forth between my house and hers became so familiar I could recount the details of the grass and street. From the tree stump used as a meeting grounds in the empty field between houses 3 and 4, to the rocky area in front of house 3 where I fell over my bike handle bars and scraped up my chin and heel of my hand. That injury I remember well because as my mother coddled me, my father scoffed and commented "She's just a little scraped up, the fresh air will do it good..." and laughed swatting at my knees playfully. I laughed, too, I was a daddy's girl and wanted to be tough for him. I gained more scars. My first scars ever were from when I lost control of my scooter and skid on my knees down the pavement eventually stopping on my elbows. I still have the scar on my left knee.
Then as I grew older I gained some different scars. There was a house diagonal from my house on the right. It was a renters house so different families moved in from time to time. If kids moved in, we usually became friends and they became apart of the usual gang. Then Mike. He wasn't my first crush, but he was the first one that made me realize that maybe I wasn't girly enough. He was the reason I had my nana buy me my first pair of high heels. Black chunky wedges, something you would see Baby Spice wear. Oh, Lordy, they were awful. Why Nana EVER bought them for me, is beyond me. My mother wasn't happy, either. As I tried wearing them around him I was quickly finding out they didn't work well with climbing trees and running through neighbors yards. But Mike and I were becoming friends fast, and I was blissful. Then he moved away, only staying with his aunt and uncle for a little while. My heart broke a little when I waited for him outside my house on the day he said he would meet me so we could venture into the woods at the back of my neighborhood. I knew something was up when he didn't show, he always did. I walked up to the house, feeling that something was wrong. When his aunt opened the door and told me that , no, he wasn't there, he had moved back up to Maine with his mom, I said thank you, always taught to be polite, and ran home crying.
I saw Mike only one more time. The day I was moving from my childhood neighborhood. He showed up. I can't tell you the feeling. The only way I can honestly describe it is that I felt like I was going to throw up my heart. Right there in front of him. He was still cool, still cute, dark hair, light brown eyes and a smile that quirked up in the corner. He said "Hey" and I pretended a cool indifference and returned with a soft "Hey". He noticed the moving trucks and the "Sold" sign in front of my house, and now I still question to this day if it was my imagination, but I swear his face fell. He asked without looking me in the eye when I was moving and I didn't look at him as I replied "Today". "Will you come back to visit?" He asked finally looking at me. "Yeah, of course, how could I not?" I replied with a small smile. He smiled lightly and nodded. "Well make sure you let me know when you do." And with that he nodded and headed back into the renters house.
I never did.
The last memory I have of Mike is leaning halfway out of the jeep window watching him as he waved from his front yard. This time I was leaving, but I was still just as sad. It was like when I used to rip the scabs off of the large scars. It had healed a little, but hurt like heck when it was touched.
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