MY TWENTY TWO YEAR OLD SELF

There was a thing floating around last week on Instagram that challenged people to post a picture of themselves at age twenty one. The funny thing about this was that so many of the people in my community only have actual print images of themselves from that time. We were all twenty one in the years before digital. The closest picture I had of myself on hand and printed was taken when I was twenty two. It’s a photo of Chris and I on our wedding day. He’s in a tuxedo and I’m in my wedding suit, a flower headband on my head. I’m holding a bouquet and our marriage license. It is one of the few pictures I have of the two of us where Chris is actually looking at the camera. It is the only decent photo of the two of us together on our wedding day.

We went with unconventional as our theme.

That is the picture I shared on Instagram but with a note that I was twenty two in the photo, but only just barely and that it was the closest I could get to twenty one right now. I’d have to dig through a box if I wanted something from when I was twenty one. There were a couple of people who responded to my post in disbelief and declared that I still look pretty much the same. I responded to these people with gratitude for the kindness but also an assurance that this can’t possibly be true. Though one person argued with me, holding firm to their belief that I still resemble twenty two year old Cindy. And again, I hold firm to my belief that it is impossible that I look the same as I did twenty six years ago.

I am the same weight now that I was then, but take better care of my body now. My haircut is the same, but my hair has more white in it now, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a twenty two year old me looking back. When I look at twenty two year old me I see more than the surface stuff and the reason I don’t believe for a second that I still pretty much look the same as back then. This was before I had finished undergrad and entered into the soul crushing world of graduate school. Chris always backed me up, never telling me “you can’t” or that I was doing things wrong or not good enough. I believed I could do anything and in time that confidence would be whittled down to nothing, but Chris would be right there helping build that confidence back. Without him around, my imposter syndrome is magnified for the whole world to see and to point at with critical pointer fingers. I am the house built on sand, continuously rebuilding my confidence levels while new tides come in to wash it all away. That picture was taken when I was at the beginning of what felt like everything, before bad career choices and bad financial decisions. Before I knew real heartbreaking loss. Before I even knew anything about imposter syndrome. Before I learned that I have to be my greatest ally. Before I knew anything about anything.

Aging is living. Living is aging. -Radiant Rebellion by Karen Walrond

That picture is of a woman just beginning to live. If I could go back and tell that young woman in the picture to do things differently, make different choices, would I? There’s maybe one or two things I’d recommend, like don’t buy that time share you’ll never use or think about clinical microbiology as a career. Otherwise, I’d say make the choices you’re going to make, but soak up every single moment of joy, even the smallest thing that makes you smile. Take millions and millions of mental pictures of those moments and there will be millions and millions because you will experience more joy than pain. In fact, I will argue that the amount of joy you experience is what will make the painful moments stand out and sting the most.

I would tell her that some times are not going to be great, but you’re going to be okay.

BLANK PAGE

I have nothing for this space this week. I have tried. Really, I have. I have deleted two almost completed entries. One on was on women in the pandemic and how our already hectic workload has doubled or even tripled. The other was about the American flag and a super racist meme someone I know personally shared in their timeline. Both topics just exhausted me because I am in a place where I think my words aren’t going to change anything. So I deleted them.

It’s Wednesday and this week is starting to feel like I’m being dragged behind a horse. I finally planned a time to visit my mother even though it will require me to quarantine for fourteen days when I get back. The stress of finding a weekend that would be most accommodating nearly turned me into a ball of goo. In the end I chose to accommodate myself (for once). Then I found fleas on Josephine. Josephine has fleas sounds like the title of children’s’ book about hygiene. She’s been wearing a Seresto collar since May, but I either bought the one for cats or one too small. The fleas are located in the lower half of her body and I have a plan to fix this that doesn’t involve setting the house on fire.

BUT…FLEAS!

I want to set the house on fire.

I am still managing to get my butt out of bed every morning at 5:30 to do an X-tend Barre class before taking Josephine on her walk. I am still managing to get twelve thousand steps in everyday. I am washing face, brushing my teeth and flossing every night before bed. Animals are being fed. People are being fed. I am doing all of the things I need to be doing to be some kind of functioning adult.

I’m okay.