By Kelly Sinon
The girl with the long brown braids and overbite was taking me to task again. I’m not sure why I allow it. She hasn’t mastered fractions yet, cannot seem to match her pants with her shirt and her bed time is at nine. She hasn’t had her heart broken or suffered the indignity of high school but sometimes she has good advice and insight, considering her age and abysmal style choices.
That boy who gave me his marble collection (um…yes, apparently, I am that old. We played marbles) but then pulled my hair in class? Yeah, He liked me.
Practicing extra hard might earn me a spot as first chair sax, despite my inability to read music at the time.
But where was she the summer before my Freshman year in high school, when I was positive that blonde was the way to go; and she failed to warn me that wearing my socks tucked inside my pants would garner unsolicited laughter from my father. She was also nowhere to be seen when I thought it might be a good idea to screw together a picture frame with a pocket knife. Her absence led to a trip to the ER; the second in a week, for stitches in the same hand. There were other things she could have warned me about but I’m pretty sure I stifled her.
Sometimes, she over-rides my will and appears when I need a firm talking to, usually. No, we…I mean, I… am not schizophrenic. Ten-year old me asks me questions that 41-year old me won’t and tries to guide me. I don’t always listen to her. Sometimes, you just have to wear Mom jeans. I mean, what else would one wear to a buffet to accompany the extra large purse? Sweats aren’t dressy enough and besides, I am a Mom.
She also appears to remind me of simpler things that made me happy and still do. She does know me better than anyone, like it or not.
Ten-year old me is all about “black and white.” There are no shades of grey for her. Life is all about what’s fair and she does have a handy way of cropping up and whispering in my ear to remind me of Karma when I see an injustice. We giggle shamelessly together when it happens. To other people. She whispers in my other ear to remind me of it for myself.
These days, she’s been relentless. Asking me questions about my future, where my head is at, what do I want to be when I grow up.The usual.
She chides me for thinking about my writing “career”. The one I imagined when I was her age; living in New York, single and fancy-free. Ten-year old me had the world by the tail. I would write, date boys (…er…men. C’mon, now), and have a luxury condo in Manhattan. Who knew I was imagining being a character on “Sex and the City”?
I’m telling you, Ten-year old me, was a woman before her …my…time.
For the most part, I enjoy her. She keeps me young, and reminds me of my idealistic side which isn’t buried as deep down as I thought.
I hope she is glad her teeth are fixed and we finally did manage to figure out how to match our clothes.
