In an effort to embarrass myself even more than I do on a regular basis, I have been on a quest to find old photos of myself. This new obsession driving me insane, because I have found a few, but the rest seem to be missing. I have a big plastic storage box of older photos here, but most of them are post-mr b. There are a few from my senior trip to Europe, and a few random odds and ends, but there seems to be a whole section of my life missing – namely jr high. And jr high, my friends, is a giant, bubbling spring or embarrassment. I’m talking knickers, headbands, (you’ve already seen photographic evidence of that one), neon, painters hats, ugly, ugly blouses, taffeta, tuxedos, and…
No, I can’t say it.
But I’m an oversharer and so I have to: femullet.
Why, oh why can’t I find this stuff? It’s not like there weren’t a lot of photos – I’m an only child with a shutterbug dad – there were thousands and I can’t find them. I’ve spent a little time looking at my parents’ house, but I may have to head back down there this weekend. I need those photos.
Tonight, though, I did find a few other treasures. Letters from an old boyfriend who left me brokenhearted (Who I coincidentally came across shortly afterward in someone’s friend list on facebook. I am now officially the creepy ex who friends you on FB. Pity me). Funny notes and letters from Hedge, referring to boyfriends I can’t even remember. A journal I wrote in on the Europe trip. Apparently all I did in Europe was drink and meet/kiss Italian boys. No really. London? Abbio. Innsbruck? Paolo. On the train to Paris? Alonzo. Paris? Fabio. Munich? Sandro (sigh). Venice? Davide (Captain of rugby team? Check. Serenaded me from outside my hotel window? Check. Proposed to me? Check. Siiiiighhhhh).
I also came across the strangest piece of mail I have ever gotten. It was a letter from an ex-boyfriend’s father. One Valentine’s Day – completely out of the blue – I got a card from a longtime on/off boyfriend’s dad. Inside was a 3 page letter which first made small talk, then moved on to the real meat – asking me to get in touch with his son again and try to be friends again. On one hand, it wasn’t all that weird, since I knew him forever and I was really close to the family. But on the other, I was kind of creeped out about it. Strangely, all these years later, reading it with the eyes of a mother, I sort of understood. While he didn’t come out and say it, I got the impression that he and his son were drifting apart – that his son was changing – maybe making some bad decisions, or at least ones that dad didn’t agree with. And he reached out to the only person he could think of who could maybe make a difference. Back then, I read creepy dad, now I read desperate dad. It made me kind of sad, because I never did get in touch with his son. He had a new girlfriend, I had moved on, it was just too weird. Maybe if he had been more direct, I would have done it. I really did care about this boy – he was one of those that leave a little piece with you forever. But I didn’t, because at 17 I just didn’t get it. Now, I do.
Anyway, I will keep looking for those horrible photos (and you will thank me if I find them). Otherwise, I will be stuck embarrassing myself with volumes of angsty, bad poetry that involves heartbreak, betrayal, and giving myself to someone. And really, no one wants that.