I was a fun kid, but very awkward. When I was in maybe 7th grade, I went to Disneyland with a fellow tween. She was a girl I’d been friends with for years.
I recall my carefully-chosen outfit: an acid wash jean skirt and a sweatshirt with silver studs and western fringe. This was topped by scrunched-down white socks and a pair of white Reebok shoes with velcro at the top. I felt very stylish and I actually was, given it was the ’80s.
It made me feel rather bold. Being boy-crazy, I dropped a hopeful remark as we entered the Magic Kingdom: “Maybe we’ll bag some babes.” You know, it was a phrase I’d heard bandied around. My friend, we’ll call her Kelly, responded with extreme disdain. She let me know in no uncertain terms that “bagging a babe” was something guys aimed to do.
Her tone was biting. It let me know that another friend had drifted into maturity earlier than me. Once this happens, a friendship is a goner.
But here’s the thing. I’m 51. I have an 11-year-old daughter. So why do I still feel a slight bit of embarrassment about this memory, instead of throwing my head back and laughing at little me’s attempt at coolness?
Why is that, and how do I stop it? Who else hangs onto memories good and bad so tightly? I’m a Cancer, so this predilection makes sense.
Who else is too critical of themselves and their lives, from start to finish? I sense I’ll need to fix this if I’m going to raise my now tweenage daughter in a way she’s not saddled with shame and expectations. As far as sensitivity, it’s too late. She’s my spitting image.
How do you deal with this stuff. Help me heal?
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