Wow! Have I ever been off track lately. I can’t believe how long I have gone without posting. Needless to say, my world has been a little crazy and time hasn’t exactly been on my side, but I still wish I had made more effort these last few weeks. God knows I have the material, what with Halloween, a stomach bug, snow storms and a newfound infatuation with the word “idiot” (thanks so much 101 Dalmations!).
This blog has become quite important to me. Not just as an outlet to let the world know how crazy each day can be, but to give myself somewhere to store all of these memories that I know one day will bring me such joy.
I have a terrible memory. Maybe it’s the gallons upon gallons of beer I drank in college, or maybe it’s the multiple concussions suffered while pretending I was an Olympic snowboarder for years. Either way, most of my high school/college years are forgotten. If it weren’t for photos and my dear, Dear Diary, I’m not sure I could tell you much about what went on back then. It’s sad, but unfortunately a reality I live with.
For years I was as dedicated to a diary as a girl could be, finally trailing off as I left college, got a real job, met my husband and began parenthood. Hidden in the back of my closet are multiple journals filled with my youthful handwriting. For years they were just books that I boxed up with every move, pages I knew were filled with silly stories of adolescence, first kisses, trips with girlfriends, graduations, a young girls goals for her future and more.
Shortly after Jackson was born I pulled each of those journals out and began the journey of remembering. It wasn’t far into the pile of words when that journey took a turn from remembrance to utter humiliation! All this time I’d imagined all the wonderful tidbits I had collected over the years only to be face to face with memories that should have been buried with that whack to the head on Snowmass Mountain back before helmets were cool.
I literally couldn’t believe I had skipped writing about all the wonderful classes and things I had learned in college, to instead write about sneaking guys into our dorm, using fake id's to get into clubs, and many other forms of debauchery. The memories came back alright, and I was going to make sure they didn’t make it any further.
So black sharpie in hand I began to delete my past. Granted there were many pages I wanted to stay intact. I did write about my love for my grandparents, how I felt when leaving home, poems and songs about life, things I would want to be remembered for. But as for which football player I might have gone home with after the kegger, time to write that off!
Don’t get me wrong, I was by no means a trashy gal. For me “hooked up” was as simple as a French kiss. But imagine if my boys read this five years from now, when “hooked up” has more connotations than even I will probably understand. Times are different, and so is language.
I’m sure there will come another day I’ll pull out those journals and be angry at myself that I can’t remember the memories those black lines contain. So I’ll fill in the holes with the good stuff, what I write here, and will continue to write, regardless of where life takes me.