…receiving a Happy Mother’s Day message four days later. In a text.
I went to a wedding last weekend. It was for a friend of mine from high school. When I got there, I ran into three people I haven’t seen in 10 years, and it struck me how long a decade is. A lot has happened in that time.
I don’t feel old. I actually still feel like I just graduated from university, even though time disagrees.
As I was leaving the wedding, I went around saying goodbye to everyone, as you do. When I got to one of my old friends, I found myself hugging her for a long time, I mean, long as far as hugs go, maybe 15 to 20 seconds. I even gave an extra squeeze at the end.
You would have thought I really really missed her. Oddly enough, we actually live in the same city now and could catch up at any time. But we won’t. Neither she nor I will make the effort.
Upon reflection, I wasn’t hugging this friend because I missed her—though she is quite lovely. I was trying to hang on to time. In my arms, I was holding on to a memory, to the feeling of who I used to be when I was with who she used to be.
There was a definite pang there. Actually, even right now as I’m thinking about it, I’m feeling a loss of sorts. It’s not that I want to go back to high school—I definitely definitely don’t—I just want that time back, I guess. I want to be younger again.
I didn’t think I’d feel this way as a still-young(ish) woman. I’m only 28. But I do.
There’s much more life ahead of me than behind (God willing) but I know that life will never be as it was when I was 18. I will never be as free. And irresponsible. And open to change.
Those were good times.
“Being funny is like any other artistic skill, but to wield it successfully requires outspokenness, unapologetic honesty, supreme self-assuredness, and an outright refusal to pander. And those aren’t exactly the traits we foster in our little girls. (Instead, we go with mistrust of other women, an extreme longing for expensive garbage, and the idea that being pretty is more important than being smart. Oh, here’s your toy, girls, it’s a fake baby that poops fake poop into a fake diaper for you to fake clean up. Have fun “playing.”)”
- I have a baby. A real baby. His name is Thomas. He’s one year old. And, despite his insistence on pinching me, he’s pretty great.
- I live in a house now. I’d be more proud of this fact if I actually paid for it without the help of my mother in law, but it’s still great.
- I’m back working in Toronto, copywriting again. This is a good thing.
- I have started to take my faith more seriously. I attend church regularly now. I might even write about it one day.
Things that are still true about me:
- I live in Hamilton, Ontario, which I no longer feel is inferior to Toronto.
- I have a husband (god bless ‘im) and a stepdaughter.
- I have a dog. Our relationship has morphed into frenemy status. But he is alive and still lives inside my home.
- I still feel compelled to write, even though I rarely take my self up on this.
I stopped writing here for a few reasons.
- I lack even the most the basic discipline.
- I started going by my married name all the time, so Jen Sorlie seemed irrelevant all of a sudden.
- I started writing other things.
I am coming back to this baby, because I failed at being disciplined on the other blogs, too; my married name is ultra common, so there was no way I could get a blog without it being something like http://www.JenReeves997xox.com; and because I can do whatever I want to, okay?