Forever 93

I think there may be an elderly woman trapped inside of me. No, I didn’t “resorb” my twin like Dwight Schrute from The Office did.

Not to my knowledge, anyway.

Technically, chronologically, biologically, genetically, and in all the other ways,  I’m 27 years old. (I know what you’re thinking – I don’t look a day over 26 and a half.) But I’m convinced that the thoughts and feelings galloping around in my head seem to come from the brain of a much, much older person. Or, at times, a much younger person.

Now it sounds like I have an identity disorder. Let me back up and explain this in a different way.

I think my 27-year-old self is made up of all of the “selves” I’ve been at different ages. I still have a 22-year-old self, a 14-year-old self, a 9-year-old self, and so on. Probably even an infant self. All of the thoughts and experiences that occurred at each age have accumulated together to form my current self.

All of the ages are important, but for whatever reason, certain ages have taken precedence. I seem to mostly be made up of a 6-year-old, a 12-year-old, a 17-year-old, and, get ready for it – a 93-year-old.

Let’s take the 6-year-old me, for example.

At 6, I was smart and a bit bossy. I went back and forth between wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs and dressing up in sparkly princess gowns; I bounced from riding bikes to playing with my mother’s makeup. I never had good comebacks for my teasing older brother, so I often responded by just slapping him. I wanted to eat macaroni and cheese for every meal, and I was messy. I was happy.

That 6-year-old is still present in me. It’s not uncommon for me to have marker on my hands or food on my clothes. I’m still not good at generating witty comebacks when being teased – though, fortunately, I’ve stopped resorting to physical violence. I get excited about little things.

And when I’m getting ready for a night out, I can look at my new outfit and careful make-up –- and still feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s things.

 

(And I still kind of want to eat macaroni and cheese for every meal.)

My 12-year-old self is also still part of my life, much to my chagrin. Years of braces, glasses, frizzy hair, and bad skin took their toll on me in middle school. I also had the long, clumsy legs of a baby deer, rendering me completely uncoordinated, with ill-fitting pants. I was so painfully insecure, and so desperate for someone to notice me.

Fifteen years later, my braces are gone, my skin has (sort of) cleared up, and I’ve traded glasses for contacts. I’ve grown into my legs, and almost never trip over my own feet. I’m more comfortable in my body, which I think is one of the upsides of growing up.

But put me in a dressing room, trying on jeans that are a smidge too short, and it’s amazing how quickly I can be catapulted back to sixth grade.

Back to a time when all of my pants fit awkwardly and I walked a little hunched over, as if that would make them less noticeable. (I’m telling you, if the school had ever flooded, my high-water pants and I would have been well-prepared.)

Back to a time when I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole, to hide away from all the people I was just so sure were whispering about me. Now, anytime my face breaks out, or my just-straightened hair turns frizzy in humidity, or I fail miserably at something athletic, my brain remembers exactly how I felt at twelve. And it takes every ounce of willpower to not let it go there.

Seventeen-year-old me is equal parts idealism and sarcasm. Back then, I was hard-working and very ambitious; like all teens, I was just trying to find my way in the world. And I’m still trying to find it, to be honest. I still daydream about stumbling upon big successes, and I’m okay with it if that makes me seem a little naïve.

At 17, I also did not like to be told what to do. And I still don’t. Being micro-managed is just about my biggest pet peeve (second to slow walkers, that is). Not long ago, I dealt with an incredibly rude, sexist, and power-hungry person in a professional setting, and I could FEEL the 17-year-old in me dying to pop out with some sort of snarky, bratty response. She was clawing to get out, and it was not easy to stop her.

That snark will probably always be there. Sorry parents, you did the best you could.

And last but not least, the elderly me. I like to think of her as being about 93. I know that I technically haven’t reached that age yet, but I’ve always been a bit of an old soul, so I know a senior citizen is bound to be in there somewhere. Probably wearing a cardigan.

The proof for my elderly side? To start, I like to crochet. I like it so much that it’s just a matter of time before I start making house shoes for everyone I know. I’m also semi-convinced that a lot of the world’s problems could be fixed with homemade cookies.

And when I put on a shirt that is slightly lower-cut than what I’m used to wearing, I’ll feel adult-y and confident for about 10 seconds before peering at myself in the mirror and thinking, you look a little trampy, dear.

Sometimes, these different versions of myself go really well together. For example, the bossiness of 6-year-old me goes nicely with the dislike of being pushed around in the 17-year-old me. (If I let those two take power more often, I’d probably turn into some sort of dictator.)

Also, the 93-year-old me thinks the 12-year-old me is adorable, even with all that acne and frizz. But that doesn’t mean much, because the elderly me thinks everyone is adorable.

But sometimes the different selves contradict each other, such as when the 6-year-old me wants to be playful and goofy, and the 12-year-old me holds back in fear of judgment. Also, the elderly me always thinks I should go to bed earlier, and cook more nutritious meals; that one’s especially difficult, because the 17-year-old me is a night owl, and 6-year-old me just wants macaroni and cheese all the time.

I try not to root for one particular age over another. Each version of me has its own limitations, but also its strengths. The 17-year-old encourages me to stand up for myself and take (healthy) risks. The high-waters-wearing 12-year-old reminds me how to hold my head up, even when I don’t feel very good about myself. And when the weight of adult responsibilities starts to drag me down a little, the 6-year-old keeps me fun-loving, optimistic, and ever-youthful.

Mommy Dearest

Given that my mother is at least partly responsible for the lovely yet disastrous adult I’ve become, it seemed fitting that my first real post be about her.

To me, it seems like there are two different types of moms. There are the Florence Henderson moms who prepare healthy snacks, limit the amount of television their kids watch, and participate in the PTA.

Then, there are the moms who seem to come straight out of gloomy Lifetime movies – moms who do hard drugs, or murder teenage girls so their own daughters can be on the cheerleading team. My mom is an interesting and confusing combination of both of these types.

Don’t argue with me, Mom. You know it’s true.

When I was a child, my mom had all the makings of a good sitcom mom. She read to me every night, was involved in my school, and prohibited my brother and I from eating junk food as an after-school snack (much to our friends’ dismay). She attended every awards ceremony, sports game, and choir concert, and actually seemed to ENJOY those things – or was just really good at pretending, which counts for something.

But there’s also a slightly sketchier side to my mom. As relevant background information, you should know that we both share a fascination of big, lovely homes in wealthy neighborhoods. We like to drive past them and daydream about what our lives would be like if we lived in them. We pick out the ones we’d want to live in, sarcastically passing judgment on the slightly-less-grand places.

After having foot surgery a few years ago, I was bored out of my mind from sitting around all day, but was still not quite well enough to be out and about on my feet. My mother’s solution was to pack me up in the back seat of her car, shove a pillow under my bum foot, and set out driving down our street. I assumed we were going for a leisurely little drive, until she whipped out a neatly folded piece of paper with her perfect handwriting all over it. I asked her what it was.

“Just a few addresses,” she replied, casually waving her hand in the air. I found her play at nonchalance unsettling.

“Addresses…to what?”

Mom hesitated briefly, and then gave in. “To some of your doctors’ homes. We’re going to see what kinds of houses they live in! I bet your dermatologist lives in a really nice place.”

“Oh, my God!” I shouted, feeling both horrified and enthralled. I knew with certainty that this was a massive invasion of my physicians’ privacy, and I was virtuously creeped out on their behalf. And yet – I kind of wanted to see what type of mansion my dermatologist lived in.

I considered lecturing my Mom on what was wrong about this situation, but I am my sketchy mother’s daughter, and I wanted to see some damn houses.

And that’s what we did on a hot summer afternoon: we drove around the city and looked at my doctors’ homes, expressing awe over some of them, and disappointment over others. To be honest, it seemed like we were paying some of them quite a bit of money to be living in such dull, average-sized homes. We happily and ironically judged them a bit for that. It was a gloriously weird afternoon.

If you don’t think that story was particularly questionable, I was just easing you in. When my mom was a teen, she experimented with things that many teens experiment with, especially in the 1970s. Nothing she did was really that crazy, but she was seen as super rebellious in her family because her parents were pretty conservative. Therefore, Mom resolved to be way more understanding about that kind of stuff once her own kids entered adolescence.

I think my family was a bit baffled by adolescent me. I wasn’t perfectly innocent – I certainly did some things they didn’t know about (and still don’t, for the sake of their sanity and mine) – but most of my mischief was more dumb than outright rebellious or dangerous.

My friends and I were very close, and enjoyed doing different things together – going to the movies, playing mini-golf, or just chatting on AIM. (Aw, remember AIM?) We also loved driving out to the lake and sitting around a fire, where we’d roast marshmallows and talk about our futures. I know it sounds like a cheesy Disney movie, but I swear it’s true.

My parents, however, were convinced that something more sinister was going on during these lake trips, and that’s fair, because there usually is when you combine teenagers with bodies of water. One afternoon, as I prepared for another lake outing, my parents called me to the living room for a frank discussion about the dangers of alcohol. I listened solemnly and respectfully, and then informed them that my friends and I weren’t drinking. They exchanged doubtful glances and assured me that they wouldn’t be angry or disappointed – they just wanted me to admit to it so they could help me stay safe. I stuck with my original story.

My parents still didn’t buy it, but they could see that I wasn’t going to “fess up,” so they made me promise to call them if we drank too much to drive home. My friends heard that story and were jealous of the leniency I was experiencing, and I could agree that it was pretty progressive of them as parents.

But I found it hilarious that they just couldn’t fathom the idea that any teen (much less one raised by two formerly rebellious people) wouldn’t be out doing crazy stuff. It was like I was rebelling against them by not rebelling.

Not long after that conversation, I was with my mom in the car. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but somehow the subject of alcohol crept its way into the discussion. My mother again asked me if my friends and I were drinking, again assuring me that she wouldn’t be upset, and again reminding me that she had done the same things as a kid. I began to wonder if I had some sort of communication disorder that made it difficult for people to understand me. Nevertheless, I once again insisted that my weekend activities were (mostly) innocent.

Here’s where the sketchier, Lifetime-movie-version of my mom kicked in. She turned to me and reported, “Well, I just find it strange that y’all aren’t experimenting at all. That’s what your adolescence is for.”

There you have it, ladies and gentleman of the jury. My mother, the same woman who raised me to be a smart, responsible, considerate person, was judging me for NOT breaking the law. My mother. JUDGING me. It’s pretty bad when your own mother thinks you’re strange and uncool. In fact, it’s a wonder she didn’t put tequila in my baby bottles. Kidding, she would never do that. Or would she…

In all seriousness, my mother’s loyalty to me is fierce. She was my biggest cheerleader when I decided to attend graduate school, and even took on a second job to pay for my rent while I completed my program. If I call her to complain about a tense discussion with a coworker, or an argument with a friend, Mom makes all the appropriate noises of outrage on my behalf. She even likes to suggest witty (and somewhat hostile) remarks that I could make if the situation arises again. Even if I admit to being partly to blame for the argument, she chooses to focus on the other person’s mistakes. She is forever on Team Amanda, no matter what. In fact, I’m half convinced that if I called her and confessed to murder, she’d come up with a few reasons why the guy probably had it coming.