I’ve been doing a lot of self-work lately, and, as I try to heal my wounded inner child, I think about that sweet little girl. There is so much I wish I could tell her.
If I had the opportunity to meet my younger self, I’d tell her:
“You are perfect just the way you are.”
And, “You are worthy, not because of how you look or what you accomplish, but because you’re you.”
Also, “One day, you’ll get NOFX stuck in your head at least once a week, which is so weird because you didn’t even listen to them that much.”
I guess then she would probably ask how I got there and demand some sort of identification to prove that I actually was her from the future and really did time-travel there, and was not just some creep. You never know—there are some sick people out there. Better to be safe than sorry.
After we got all that settled, I imagine she would probably have some follow-up questions.
She’d ask, “So . . . how do things turn out for me?”
I’d tell her that all her wildest dreams come true—that she grows up to be an actor and an artist and a comedian and a writer, she has nice friends, she is good at cutting hair, yada yada.
Then she’d say, “Oh, cool. So I’m happy then, right?”
“*Well,” I’d say, scrunching up my face, “it’s kind of hard to explain—like, yes, but also it’s, like, once you accomplish one thing, you immediately start looking at the next goal, or comparing yourself to your peers. But then sometimes you’re, like, ‘Wait a second, I don’t even want that for myself.’ And the thing is, you don’t want to be famous, but you of course want people to think of you when they’re hiring for things, so you’re, like, ‘Ugh, I guess I’ll post on social media more.’ ”
“Social . . . media?” she’d reply.
“Oh, my God, sorry,” I’d say. “I forgot, you’re in the two-thousands or whatever. Um, so there’s, like, Internet on cell phones—everyone has cell phones now. And there’s an app, well, it’s kind of like a Web site, called Instagram, and you post pictures and comment on other people’s pictures, and you want to look hot but not so hot that you’re trying—unless that’s your thing! In which case it works, but I don’t really feel like that’s my brand and—”
“Insta . . . gram?” she’d sound out.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry. So, Instagram is owned by Facebook—” And I’d see on her face that she’s puzzled, and I’d sort of wave my hand and say, “Uh, Facebook . . . it’s, uh . . . it’s, like, this Web site that used to be for chatting, but now it’s, like, destroyed the world, and the guy who made it has to testify in front of Congress all the time. It’s crazy—OH, MY GOD! Sidebar: We’re going to Mars! Anyway, what I’m getting at is that you do have a really fun life, but it’s human nature to want more sometimes.”
“Totally,” she’d say. “I get that.”
Then she’d stand up to walk me to the door, giving me some kind of line about how she’d really love to talk more but has to get back to homework.
“Oh!” I’d say, remembering. “Being curvy is totally socially embraced now. Being skinny is out.”
“That’s great!” she’d say.
“Yeah, but you’re skinny,” I’d add. She’d stop smiling.
“Wait,” she’d say. I’d turn. “Do I get really into NOFX in college or something?”
“No!” I’d say. “That’s why it’s so weird!”
Then I’d finally get going, knowing that I’d given her all the tools she’d need to blossom into a strong woman who knows and loves herself.
