Last night, as I was packing, I stumbled across some old journals that I had stuffed in a bag under the bed. I have always thought of journaling as romantic--something that I, or my children, or even grandchildren, would find someday a long time from now and read and discover things about me. Ah yes, so romanticized. And apparently I think my life is a movie. Maybe Nicholas Sparks will make The Notebook 2, which in turn will become a movie, and I really want Mandy Moore to play me.
Anyhow, I picked up this one journal. . .it was a green satin job with sparkly beaded stars all over it. I could have guessed immediately who had given it to me without opening: a friend with a great, if not greater, appreciation for all things that glitter and glow. So I opened it, and she had written a lovely introduction and grand expectations that I use it to record "all of my life's memories, and dramas". Does she know me or what?
I was so excited to see what I had written and what drama had unfolded on those pages. There was one entry. Detailing my first month of summer after graduating from high school. Without getting into detail (this is the wide open internet after all), I had written about a date I had gone on with my then boyfriend--and good lord, I feel so embarrassed for my 18 year old self now. I couldn't finish reading the thing so I tore out the pages and threw them away. I believe that is cardinal sin #1 of journaling. But people, this was bad. Desperate and dramatic and all woe is the life I lead.
And that was it. A grand total of one entry in a journal in which I had vowed to record my life. Funny how nothing seems to have changed. I am still dramatic, and woeful, and stubborn, and trying my hand at journaling again. Except this time its here, and YOU are my lucky audience. And you all are just so damn pretty.
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