As some of my friends and family are aware, I’ve been stumbling down Memory Lane lately with the recent arrival of the shipment from our storage unit. This precious trash was so valuable to us that we paid to keep it safely in storage for more than 8 years. I’m so glad I found that dental reminder from 2000. And that gas company magnet with the 1997 calendar is really special to me.
More importantly, however, is the discovery of my high school journal.
I feel comfortable that you won’t judge me too harshly if I share this little bit. And if you do? Well, you probably weren’t going to ask me to prom either.
February 15, 1987
To preface this vignette, I had worked myself into quite a dither over not being asked to prom. Nobody in the whole world could possibly understand what I was going through (except maybe Samantha Baker and everybody knows she ended up with Jake Ryan anyway, so she wasn’t going to be much help.) And to top it off, the boy I wanted to go with had just asked my friend instead of me, so after a several pages of self-loathing, I finally scribbled:
Why can’t I laugh?
Why does your nose run when you cry?
Why does Neil Diamond turn me off so?
All valid questions in their own right. And in case you were wondering, my feelings for Neil Diamond have not changed in 25 years.
After rediscovering this today, I flashed to the not-so-distant future when our boys unearth this book after I succumb to malaria while attempting to rescue orphaned children on the island of Barbados. (Warmer than Russia and more tropical than Africa. Let’s be realistic here. My selflessness has its boundaries.)
I pictured their faces as they skimmed each mortifying page.
And that’s when I decided tonight would be a good night for a bonfire.
But something made me turn the page one more time.
I had never seen this before. This is not my handwriting. It’s not my sisters’, or my mother’s. In fact, I’m pretty sure my mom gave up listening to Stryper long before October 1988.
You see, I was in my first semester of college in the Fall of 1988, probably feeling equally as miserable and filled with hatred for Neil Diamond as I was in 1987.
This handwriting must belong to my college roommate…
WHO READ MY JOURNAL.