Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

When I was 13, I got a summer job babysitting for the family that lived across the street. They had two little girls, approximately 5 and 7 years old. It was a big responsibility, and clearly the workplace stress was taking its toll:

June 18, 1984

Well this morning I got I got up and prepared myself for another day of babysitting. I feel that the job may be preparing me for what may come in the future. I have many responsibilities as a child and they will continue to grow as I mature. Lately I have been kind of heavy. Emotionally, I mean. I have to lighten up. I am only a kid, I have to live life to the fullest and enjoy! But in the back of my mind I will keep saying: someday, someday...

Wow. For a teenager, I was really into preparation. Or at least the idea of it.

I have no idea what the hell was going on in the back of my mind, but I can tell you that I was a profoundly bad babysitter. One day, the younger girl gave me some back talk so I banished her to her bedroom upstairs. The older, more civilized child and I settled in front of the television to watch The Young and the Restless. The content (affairs, coma, betrayal) was perhaps not well suited to a 7-year-old, but I didn't hear her complaining. What can I say? We were young. We were restless.

Suddenly I heard her sister calling out from her prison cell/bedroom. Hard to make out at first, but it grew louder. "I'm having fun! I'm having FUN! I'm having FUH-HUN!"

The little hooligan was taunting me! I marched my 13-year-old ass up those stairs and opened the bedroom door to find her staging an elaborate barbie ho-down complete with ponies! I did the only thing I could do.

I systematically knocked each and every one of those horses on their plastic rumps. (or is it "hind quarters"? I was never a horsey girl...) Either way, take that, Stacey!

Another day I took the girls to the beach. Not much else to do in a small town on Lake Michigan. There was a lifeguard on duty, so no problem. Pretty sweet gig, actually. I laid back, closed my eyes, caught some rays.

I felt something. A tap on my shoulder. Someone was blocking my sun! I opened my eyes to find Stacey standing there, holding her mother's hand. Without my knowledge or consent, she had taken it upon herself to walk away from the beach and over to her parents hardware store, 3 blocks away.

I know what you're thinking...she is SO fired. Strangely enough, all Stacey's mom did was drop the kid off and head back to work.

It was a different economy. Harder to lose a job back then.

To quote the back of my mind: "Someday...someday..."

August 24, 1982

Me and Hadley are going downtown today. She is coming in about five minutes, but she'll be late.

When school starts I'm going to try to make lots of new friends. I'm going to join lots of clubs.

I don't want to spend my life without dates. I'm going to get my hair cut.

That's all now.

This diary entry may seem like the naive ramblings of an 11-year-old with a terminally tardy friend and a premature fixation on dating, but it's bigger than that. It's about rebirth. The innate human desire to disappear for 3 months and return as someone way better looking. Ok so, technically, I've had more haircuts in my lifetime than dates and the only club I currently belong to is a book club filled with women who like wine more than reading...

Still I remain a big believer in starting life over.

I resolve to change anything and everything about myself at least once a month. I stay exactly the same, but that's not really the point.

My younger sister and I refer to this process as creating our "new person." We like to discuss how that "new person" is going to dress, think, socialize and even read in a shockingly new and positive way -- changing our lives and the lives of those around us forever.

Go ahead. Create a new person. Anyone can do it. Though, I recently had to scold my sister for creating a new person that was far too much like her old person, so here are a few things to keep in mind:

Dream big. Remember, this is not you, this is someone much cooler. This new person probably wouldn't be caught dead with your old person. (no offense)

You'll likely need a hair cut and/or dye job. Don't go too short, new people need the freedom of an occasional hair flip. Also, know your limits. In the 8th grade I was so desperate for a new person that I accidentally got a perm. Not a big deal, except that I already had extremely curly hair.

You may need to lose weight. Or maybe you don't. Either way, we could all probably stand to eat a little less cheese.

Those old jeans have GOT to go.

Those old friends have GOT to go. Old friends will fail to recognize the newness of your person and sabotage your efforts by bringing up the fact that you used to wear black jeans, cuffed at the ankle and listen to Hanson -- something your new person would clearly never do. (*Note: see jeans instruction above*)

And remember, if the new person doesn't work out, don't despair. There are always more people to become.

Newer people.

Better people.

So last night I had dinner and drinks, and drinks, and drinks with a couple of friends.

It was an early bird special.

I'm on a budget.

There's an economic crisis, people. Happy hours are in order! Patriotic even!

I digress.

Somewhere in the midst of our conversations (which ranged from the aforementioned economic crisis to my friend's former job as the mail reader on the short-lived Richard Simmons television series "Dream Maker") -- it was suggested to me that I either start a blog or have a baby.

As I said, I'd had a few drinks (don't judge) so I'm not sure why these are my only two options, but I've decided to go with the blog.

Blogs are free. Babies are very expensive, as far as I can tell. And they shit their pants. This is not their fault -- they're babies -- but I'm just saying...

Blogs are basically a diary only without a lock. A few years ago, as part of her fruitless attempt to rid her house of all of her children's useless junk, my mother sent me a bunch of my old diaries. I wasn't strong on dating my entries, but they basically began when I learned to write and have never stopped. I'm not gonna lie to you, they're dull. Yet I felt compelled to catalog every dull moment of my young dull life. What is fascinating about them is, these diaries prove I have been the same person since the 5th grade. For example:

May 21 (somewhere around the age of 10)

I just got back from camp. I went with my fifth grade class. After I got home Angie asked me to come to her house with 3 other people. What a dope! I hate Angie! While we were at camp a bunch of roomers went around about the counselors being in bed together. I don't know if they are true or not. (time lapse) I have not gone to Angie's party yet. I hope I sprain my ankle or something like that. I'm too tired to go to her dumb party. And I'm sure, she calls me up the minute I get home from 3 nights at camp to sleep at her house.

I HATE ANGIE!


Ok, setting aside the disturbing possibility that the teenagers charged with the care and well being of a gaggle of 10-year-olds were instead getting it on in the woods -- this is clearly not a "normal" reaction to being extended an invitation to a party. But 20+ years later, I stand by my Angie hatred. I don't like sleep overs. I don't like being away from home for long periods of time (unless on vacation in a four star hotel). And most of the time, I'm happy to sit on my couch, watching reruns of Golden Girls, and not engaging in any form of social interaction.

Back off, Angies!

Incidentally, the next day I wrote:

I didn't have such a bad time after all. I'm surprised.