I believe in the power of writing things down. I believe that words written on a page or typed on a screen can take on a life of their own and come true. I also believe in self-fulfilling prophecies and karma and fate and paying attention to signs. I guess that makes me a little flaky, but since I also have a practical, cautious nature, I think I’m a pretty well-balanced flake.
I’ve never done well with life plans. Things have a funny way of not working out the way I intend (sometimes in the best possible ways) and long-term planning leads to disappointment when goals aren’t reached by a specified time limit. There is very little about my life that has turned out as I have planned or predicted along the way. Still, as I contemplate turning 40 in two short years, it’s impossible to resist the urge to map out my future.
It’s a hard thing to accept that we sometimes have little control over our own lives. I think that’s why those five (ten, twenty, life) plans are so popular-- they give us an illusion of control that doesn’t exist. It’s comforting to write down our goals, as if by writing them down we can avoid all the hurts and heartaches and disappointments of life. Of course, it’s those awful, painful events that sometimes bring about incredible and meaningful changes. But no one is writing “catastrophic illness,” “divorce” or “job layoff” into their life plan, are they?
I have written a “By 40” plan for myself with the goals I hope to achieve in the next two years. I like knowing which direction I’m headed, even if there are side roads and detours along the way. Things will no doubt come along to change my plans and reality will bear little resemblance to what I’ve written, and that’s okay. The idea that my life might go as planned is exciting… but so is the realization that it won’t.
There is a bottle of champagne in my refrigerator that has been there since 1993. Strange? I suppose, but it gets stranger. That bottle of champagne has been moved from South Carolina to Rhode Island to Virginia. In that time, it has resided in three different refrigerators. The current refrigerator that holds the champagne is less than two years old. I’m guessing I may be the only person who has a bottle of champagne in their refrigerator that is older than the refrigerator. Hopefully, that bottle will never be opened. I say “hopefully” not because it probably tastes like vinegar at this point (what does twelve year old champagne taste like?), but because if I’m drinking that champagne, life has been very, very bad to me.
We bought our first house in 1993 after a military move to South Carolina. The champagne was a housewarming gift from our real estate agent. We didn’t crack it open immediately because it needed to be chilled, but God knows we needed a drink after wading through the delightful house buying process. Since it didn’t get opened immediately, I said we should wait until we got everything unpacked, the rooms painted and the house in order before opening it to celebrate. Well, you know how long it takes to get settled. Months went by, the champagne got pushed to the back of the refrigerator and life went on.
Fast forward seven years to our next military move. This time, we were going to Rhode Island for a short six months before moving on to Virginia. I remember Jay suggesting we go ahead and open the champagne or get rid of it, but I resisted. I said we should save it and open it once we got relocated and our house sold. So I packed it in a cooler with some road snacks and we were off for a hellish two-day drive to Rhode Island in January following a nor’easter. We made it to Rhode Island and the champagne went back into the refrigerator while we waited for our house in South Carolina to sell.
Our house sold quicker than I expected and everything went relatively smoothly, so it didn’t seem like we should open the champagne. Leave it to me to suggest we wait until we closed on our next house in Virginia before we had a celebratory drink. That wasn’t a smooth experience, but Jay closed on the house by himself while I was still in Rhode Island and by the time I got down here we were in the middle of the packing/painting/settling routine once more. The champagne, moved once again in a cooler, went into the refrigerator and life went on.
There have been times in between the moves when something happened, something stressful or upsetting, and I would say, “When I get through this, I’m going to open that bottle of champagne.” Somehow, I’ve always gotten through everything-- including the moves-- only to look back and think that whatever it was I just got through wasn’t serious enough or awful enough or traumatic enough to warrant opening an old bottle of champagne. So the champagne sits, on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, tucked away for the day when it’ll truly be needed-- and finally be opened.
If the day ever comes when I have to open that bottle of champagne, I will have just gone through something pretty awful and survived. The champagne might taste lousy, but it will be symbolic-- of surviving, of persevering, of living.
Of course, if I ever drink that 1993 bottle of champagne, it might just be the death of me.
Back: Kay (my aunt’s mother), Nettie (my father’s mother), my mother, Betty (my
aunt). Front: me (age 5), Kim (my cousin, age 2), Michael (my brother, age 3).
What you can’t see: My aunt is pregnant with my cousin Brian.
This picture was taken the summer after my fifth birthday (long, long ago in 1972) at the Jungle Queen Riverboat. Don’t we look like a happy bunch? What I remember about the day-- other than the unbearable heat-- was my mother being cranky and yelling at my brother and my aunt being very uncomfortable because she was pretty far along in her pregnancy. I also remember how much I loved being on the water. I would probably be disappointed by the tacky tourist trap now, but it seemed like a great adventure to a five year old.
The person who isn’t in the picture (other than my father and uncle, who were busy bankrolling our little family excursions) is my cousin Jason. Jason-- who isn’t in this picture because he was a few years younger than Brian, and Brian was still working on being born-- died last week.
I hadn’t seen Jason in years, so my memories are of him being a fearless skateboarder, an obnoxious teenager and my “little cousin” who, like his siblings, called me Krissy. I didn’t know the twenty-nine year old Jason who died unexpectedly in his sleep last week. I don’t know what was going on in his life, or if he was still fearless (or obnoxious), but if I’d seen him before he died, I know he would have called me Krissy and I would have made a face.
It is odd to think that my life, which hasn’t been so very long, encompassed all of Jason’s life. I remember his birth, his toddler years, the in between and awkward stages, his teen years-- and here I am now, contemplating his death.
How is it that in the midst of the timeline of my life, this person was born, lived and died? It is a strange, strange feeling, the contemplation of such fragile mortality. Far stranger is knowing that the Jungle Queen is still going strong, still delighting five year old girls on hot summer days and still capturing the memory in (hopefully color) pictures, while Jason, my little cousin who wasn’t even born yet when I went on my riverboat expedition, is gone.
It’s a shame Jason missed out on that great adventure because he was born too late-- and a tragedy he will miss out on so many others because he died too soon.
Heather Corinna is, among other things, a fantastic writer, a passionate activist and a really cool chick. She also happens to be an amazing photographer. (And Heather’s photography contains nudity, so be forewarned before you peruse her portfolio.)
I am enthralled by a photo Heather recently added to her collection. I have looked at it so many times that I finally made it the wallpaper on my laptop. It is… in a word… visceral. She’s beautiful, yes, but there is something very powerful, very personal, very raw, in this image. It shakes me, maybe because I identify with it-- and the emotions it invokes-- all too well.
Each time I look at this picture, I wonder: is she tearing herself apart, or is she trying to hold herself together?
As for me, sometimes I just don’t know.
It’s 2005.
Yes, I know you know that. Even I know it’s 2005. I’ve only slipped and written 2004 twice. However, there is an alarming significance to this year that I hadn’t really contemplated until last week.
I graduated from high school in 1985. Let’s do the math, shall we?
2005 - 1985 = 20
Twenty years. Twenty freakin’ years. I feel like Jeremy Piven in Grosse Pointe Blank, only I’m screaming “Twenty years!” instead of “Ten years!”
How did this happen?
I did not attend my ten year high school reunion, and I don’t anticipate making a trip to Florida this year, either. I am still in touch with a few people-- distantly, in the yearly Christmas card way-- and that’s enough for me. There are a few people who occasionally cross my mind, but they’re as unlikely to attend a reunion as I am.
My graduating class was not of the “rah rah” variety. We barely scraped together enough money to even have a prom, while being bracketed by two outstanding classes comprised of fundraising phenoms with school spirit to spare. My class, on the other hand, defined the word “apathetic.” I really couldn’t tell you why. I just know that if there is a reunion (and I’m not sure there will even be one), attendance will be low.
There was a ten year reunion, but I didn’t feel compelled to make an appearance for a variety of reasons. When that mile marker year rolled around, I felt a keen sense of personal failure. I had envisioned all sorts of adventures and fame for myself when I was eighteen and, at twenty-eight, I was not the person I had imagined I would become. I had neither the confidence, accomplishments or credentials to face a crowd of old classmates (which is rather amusing given that some of my former classmates have been guests of the state in various correctional facilities).
I know it’s not the way it’s supposed to work, but I think I have changed more in the years between twenty-eight and (almost) thirty-eight than I did between eighteen and twenty-eight. For one thing, I’m no longer lacking in confidence. My accomplishments and credentials may not be all I’d like them to be, but the thought of being intimidated by anyone I might have gone to school with makes me laugh. It would take quite a lot to intimidate me these days.
I am (mostly) beyond being insecure about who I am. I rarely feel the need to live up to anyone else’s expectations except my own. Likewise, I have come to realize that for every person who will be happy for whatever success that should come my way, there are ten more who will begrudge me the slightest bit of happiness because it isn’t theirs, so I really shouldn’t care about anyone’s opinion but my own. I have stopped believing there is some magic age when all the wisdom of the world is bestowed upon me. I know I will never be the smartest, funniest, prettiest or richest girl in the room-- and I’m okay with that. I also know that when I’m eighty-two I’ll still be referring to myself as a girl because that’s how I feel.
Funny thing is, I liked high school. I really liked it. I wouldn’t call them my glory years, but they were pretty good years, all things considered. Maybe that’s why I’m content to skip reunions, I want to keep my high school memories where they belong-- in the past.
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Babies. Pregnancy. Motherhood. Insanity. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
