under/overachiever

I had so much promise.

What happened to me? (Kidding, but not kidding.) I'm clearly the way-tragic product of too many interests, too much enthusiasm, and a desperate need to be good at everything. 

It was so much pressure (self-applied), too little focus on any one thing. I was a cat, leaping from one shiny thing to another. I still am.

Hypothesis: the internet ruined me. Or boys. BOYS ON THE INTERNET. Damn. 

 
yeah, "head of social" - there's my problem. 

During this week's excavation of my past life (in the Cave - err, Rubbermaid bin - of Treasures), I'm feeling intimidated by my own achievements. What? In the 8th grade I was on the volleyball team, softball team, yearbook committee, drama club and still managed to score top honours in my classes? French immersion, by the way. Also, I had a pretty profitable little babysitting enterprise on the side. Oh, and you know, just a HIGH SCHOOL BOYFRIEND.

Alright, so I stink at volleyball (and most other sports) and I always did.

Kindergarten gym-class evaluation: 

Apparently I needed improvement in "manipulation". Ha! I wonder if Ms. Chesney would be proud of my manipulation skills now? Boys, not baseballs, natch. (WINKY FACE!)

Though my "body awareness" was satisfactory from a young age. Not. Surprising. At. All. 

(whore)

Good grief. Winky face...?

Evaluation and recognition were my drugs of choice. I still need a fix now and then. Example: I will continue to endure the ribbing of my desk-neighbour ("NO ONE uses Foursquare") as long as I am still the mayor of Big Fat Burrito and the app continues to award me things like the "Bento Badge". Not since Girl Guides have I been awarded such clear measurements of "success" (success in "checking into" the poutine joint, but still). 

"Grade me! Look at me! Evaluate and rank me! I’m good, good, good and oh so smart! GRADE ME!" 

Lisa Simpson for life. 

Oh, y'know, just 1st place.

What do I really expect from myself now? What does all of this STUFF amount to? I've had a pretty amazing and full life so far. I can't say that any of it was "wasted" even though the best thing to come of a $20K art school education was my friend Liz. She's pretty worth it, though. 

(I haven't painted in years.)

I guess I just thought that a kid like me would be doing something huge and super meaningful as an adult (*gulp* I can't live up to that word). I love my life and my job, yeah, but where am I in 5 years? What do I really have to show for the last 10? I've been a tumbleweed. I'm pretty much in love with change (always a military kid...), so maybe I was meant to be a wanderer. Maybe this is how I have to find my niche. Maybe I never will.

Born-too-late flower-child.

But if I can ever find a cure for restlessness, it would be nice to figure out what I'm really meant to do. (WALL-EEEEEE!) Eventually. Maybe I'll be 45 before that happens. 

Oh gosh, by then I'll be a mom. A MOM!!!

That's coming soonish. I just really wanted to have my shit together first. I don't know. Maybe this is as "together" as I get. Maybe I just have to accept that I can be a little (or a LOT) bonkers and still a responsible adult and awesome mom. I can. 

Living proof: my mom is a wicked-(suck-it-June-Cleaver)-awesome mom and she was craaaaazy. While most moms stored pot roast and popsicles in the deep-freezer, mine stored garbage bags full of snow in the winter so we could have snow ball fights at our summer birthday parties. (!!!!!)

 See? winter gloves AND bathing suits.  ALSO: my mother should be apprehended by Family Services for allowing that haircut to happen.

Luckily, too, Alex isn't perma-stuck with me in Neverland, so at least one of us will be a reasonable facsimile of an adult/parent.

...well that got a little dark. Life-excavation went from LOL to OMFG pretty fast.

It's a good slap in the face, though. I'm over Death Cold 2000 and it's time to put Epic 2012 to paper. Sure, my tattoo is booked for September and I'm transforming into a redhead next week but that's just scratching the surface. Necessary but superficial. (AND AWESOME!) I can't just keep expecting new hair to fix things (EVEN THOUGH IT WILL BE AWESOME).

I will have a plan. It will be good. It will make me an adult. Sort of.

(p.s During the writing of this post last night, my Mom called to ensure I wasn't having an early mid-life crisis. This coming from the woman CALLING FROM A HOT TUB - literally, they have a waterproof house-phone. I told her I had to call her later, but she discouraged me because they're watching their "shows". Oh I see. American Idol trumps YOUR OWN CHILDREN. That's OK. I'll just have a beer instead. Then end up on Intervention in 6 years. Totally cool, ma.)

Flashback.

Just found the MOTHER LODE: the last box of my shit (yes, shit) that was allowed to stay in my parents' basement. Forget that my brother still has a ROOM full of junk - my box was no longer welcome. 

While attempting to locate my high school diary (to subject myself to more internet humiliation), I remembered that this castaway box had yet to be explored. Diary Schmiary. This is the good stuff. I would like to scan and share all of it now-now-NOW because it's just too ridiculous to keep to myself for much longer. But, well, it's a good 25 years or so of pure embarrassment/awesomeness, and will demand a good chunk of my non-existent time. More soon, I promise!

Contents of the box include (but are not limited to): high school ID cards, 1998 bus pass, letters written (but never sent) to ex-boyfriends, letters from ex-boyfriends, letters from my Ethiopian pen pal, my petrified prom corsage, movie stubs to 'Airheads' and 'Austin Powers', Best Actress trophy 1990 (I played one fierce wicked stepmother WITH A SOLO), my Subway Sandwich Artist name tag, Swimming badges, Girl Guides of Canada membership card, valentines from my Grandmother circa the 80s, a copy of the July 1996 issue of Seventeen (cover story: "What you don't know about Jared Leto").

 By the way, if you were my friend at any point between 1986 and 1998 and you ever sent me a letter, card, valentine, love note, written apology, drawing, invitation or postcard, I PROBABLY STILL HAVE IT. Ask me. Vicky, I have so much dirt on you. (How's THAT for a blog-mention, you attention-whore?)

 

The box also contained this:

Did any of you do this in high school? I laughed at my girlfriend Leah for keeping hers, but it seems that I'm equally guilty of hoarding* tendencies. 

Anyway, this find is particularly hilarrr because my NUMBER ONE MATCH (!!!) would go on to be the singer in my future husband's band. You'll recognize the name, no doubt.

Hubby is miffed about this (and also for not making the list), I think. You may remember that we attended the same school? I doubt he participated anyway. While I was a joiner (SCHOOL SPIRIT! YEAH!), he had disdain for joining and cheering. Also, he had a scuzzy goatee. It wouldn't have worked.

Unfortunately, THIS guy didn't make the list:

(*my grandmother literally was a hoarder, as in the worst of the worst of the worst on the TLC program by the same name. It's sad. It's hereditary. Since I don't want to die on piles of newspapers and cat feces, my stuff-attachment is now in check.)