The Fallibility of My Own Memory
I've been wrong about a few things
I’ve always considered myself to be pretty “with it”. In fact, did you know that one of the criteria for a quality teacher is “with-itness”? (You’d think we could find a better term.) I have a long internal list of all the ways I’m flawed, and with-itness is not on there.
With it (according to Oxford Languages)
knowledgeable about and following modern ideas and fashions
alert and comprehending
To be with it means you’re aware - You’re picking up on what the universe is putting down. But I’ve come to learn that I may not be as with it as I once imagined.
Now, I’ve never had any illusions of being cool in the eyes of the kids. I’m as with it as I need to be according to the first definition.
But, Lordy Lordy, I’ve been straight up wrong about what I’m comprehending.
I have two stories to share this week, both involving friendships I started decades ago.
When I graduated from college, I did what anyone living in a small college town armed with an art history degree would do. I fell in love and got a job at a bakery.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this job yet, but it doesn’t matter. This was the best job ever. I arrived in the dark, started the doughs for the day, and then worked at the kneading table with people I loved hanging out with. This is where I met Stephanie.
My dream job wasn’t meant to last forever. After a year, Rob and I hit the road to live our (my) big, important dreams of getting a “real” art job.
Stephanie and I wrote letters for a while. I did visit her a couple of times. And then we lost touch.
I remember seeing her just two times in the intervening years. The first time I visited her, she had roommates, one of whom she didn’t particularly like. We’ll call her Candy. Candy invited us to join her and her friends to go rock climbing, and I accepted with enthusiasm, knowing Stephanie’s feelings about Candy. I know, I was a bad friend, and Stephanie was understandably miffed.
Years later, I ran into Stephanie during a gallery walk. I had my children in tow, and she had her art show. It was really weird, and I thought she had washed her hands of me.
Now, are you ready for some magic? When I finally returned to our homeland with my family, the day after the moving vans left, I ran into Stephanie at Goodwill. (Don’t tell me the universe isn’t working some magic all the time. I mean, we met at GOOD WILL.)
Her enthusiasm humbled me. I genuinely thought she didn’t like me anymore.
Here’s the thing. After years of morning swims, coffees, and a trip to Mexico, I finally confessed that I thought she had been mad at me for those twenty years we were apart.
You guys, she doesn’t remember EITHER of these encounters. AND, she had pictures from a time I visited her, that I have no recollection of.
Our memories are shit. At least that was the lesson I thought I was supposed to learn. But no, the Universe wasn’t done with me.
Last week, I met up with Christen, a friend from high school. That was a very long time ago. I attended school long before cellphones. This was a time when we were all chasing each other down, leaving messages on physical answering machines all over town.
My friend still has those physical tapes! Can you even imagine? And she’s no fool. Even though we’d talked literally twice since high school, both at reunions, she did the right thing and called me up so we could listen together!*
We talked for a long time, and I was reminded how close our group of girlfriends was at the time. We each thought the world of each other, and I wish I had appreciated how lucky we were in the moment. That we adored one another, believing each of us to be as brilliant and funny as the others.
Like most high schoolers, as much as we enjoyed each other, we also had other groups and obligations that pulled us in multiple directions. Christen and I weren’t hanging out much during our Junior and Senior years, and in the years since, I’ve told myself it was because she was mad at me!
Are you all seeing a theme?
She was never mad at me, and now that I think about that time, it all makes sense. Those last two years, I had turned all my free time over to the Year Book. I spent more time with another group I loved. There were never hard feelings, just the usual workings of life.
And now, as a full adult, I’ve been doing some real soul searching. I’ve always assumed someone is mad at me if the vibe is off. Always.
Dear Reader, I now understand that this is an insane way to live.
I’m hoping that by writing this all out and sharing this revelation, I can break this habit. My new goal is to remind myself of the truth.
Girl, you don’t know what anyone’s thinking, and it doesn’t matter. If they’re that mad, they can tell you.
And then I can block them.
Perhaps, Reader, you haven’t been as with it as you thought you were. Maybe there’s a story you’ve been telling yourself that is based on nothing but your worst fears, and not on reality. Let this be a sign to acknowledge your mistake.
I, for one, can assure you that I am not mad at you**, and I probably can name many things I like about you.
You are all treasures.
xoxo
*I’m sad to report that at fifteen my voice was as clear as a bell. No vocal fry, and not a hint of valley girl. I’m devastated.
**Unless you voted for our current president and are still unrepentant. Then, you can be assured, I am mad at you.
No one’s NECK’s as incredibly THICK as Gastons!💕