Dear Past,
I can see why people want to forget you. I can see why people don't want to talk about you or look at your documentations. I thought I was up to it. Now I have to get drunk. Thanks so much. I mean, truthfully it's not your fault. It is NOT your fault. I'm being melodramatic, I know. It would be better to say "it is what it is" and have a good laugh and move on. But you know, Past, I have a rash on my face. An unexplained rash that has been here for weeks. It continues to spread and grow and it is not an allergic reaction to anything. It is just here. Just hanging out on my dry, patchy face. And while sometimes I can ignore it or put some medicine on it and keep going, after spending some time with you tonight, Past, I am looking at this rash thinking "how apt". I mean really, what a great symbol of it all.
I do recognize that sometimes when I hang out with you, Past, I leave thinking "thank god" and "hooray for time passing". Mostly I probably think that, no offense, but tonight--paired with a foot injury that keeps me in orthopedic shoes, a moc-turtleneck I thought was comfortable, and a red patchy rash extending across my face--I found myself really missing you.
I mean, the thing is, Past, we had some good times. And above the good times, what I'm reflecting upon tonight, is how OLD I am. How sadly, insufferably old I have become. There was this person, this "me" that you were sharing with me, and that person looks so different than what I am now. I am having a hard time over here. And I know you're not trying to get me down, you're just presenting the facts. But the facts are hurtful. I mean, I wish you would have TOLD me, Past--I wish you would have told me what was going to happen. How everything was going to spread out and sag and swell and then sag even more. How my hair was going to get thin and limp and my freckles would fade and my chins would flow over one another like an American waterfall if I ever moved my head and my eyes would get foggy and my expressions would become more unsightly than they are creative. I wish you would have told me. Yes, I know if you had I couldn't have believed it, but Past, I have to say, I wish I could have found a way.
Nostalgia is a funny feeling. Sometimes it's laced with regret and remembering, and sometimes it's bookended by laughter and greatfulness. Tonight it's confusing. I love those things I saw pictures of. I love those times and the way I can remember them. But hey, how did that person experiencing all those things in the pictures become so different? That person does not seem like this person with an awful rash and broken feet. I don't even remember I smiled like that.
I don't remember I could smile like that. Do you know what that means? I looked at myself, and I didn't remember I could be like that. I don't remember. It's not even that long ago, and I don't remember it. I don't remember how to do it anymore. I know how to be happy, and I smile truly, but that thing--those faces--you showed to me tonight? I don't remember them.
I am smarter now, that much we can agree on. I am kinder, clearer, calmer. All of that is good. for all of that I am grateful, and for all of that I would not go back. But to look sweet and alive and excited and enraptured and consumed and hopeful and charged? Well, I might feel those things still, but I don't look them. The proof is in you, Past, you know that. To look them again, what a feeling. The cheese, the burritos, the late nights, the lack of fruit, the cigarettes, the worry, the poor time management, the brown food diet, the beer. It's all gotten part of me.
The question is, Past, can I turn this into something we look at together and laugh about and say we learned from and move on? Or is this just who I am now?
Is it? Or is it?
Mamma
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