Grandma was the one constant in my life. I changed, but she never did. She sat in her chair, in her house, read the paper, made simple dinners, called me, asked me to take her out shopping.
That woman loved to shop.
Even when her cane slowed her down and I became aggravated. I tried not to let it show, but I think she could tell half the time.
But she stopped sitting in her chair in her house, stopped reading the paper, stopped making simple dinners, stopped calling me and asking me to take her out shopping. She stopped. Her heart stopped. She died of kidney failure a year ago today.
It’s hard being my age and hearing my peers talk about their grandparents. I feel like I’m too young to not have grandparents.
But, as my boyfriend says, c’est la vie. Such is life. But I miss her terribly.
My brother’s college professor encouraged his students to begin a blog. LiveJournal, BlogSpot, WordPress…power up your iBook, find the site that works for you and create an account.
So he did.
Jordan started a WordPress blog, called it “Innocence, In a Sense” and practiced his writing. (This is why Jordan is WAY smarter than I am; I just now realized how clever his title was. I’m a year older now than he was when he started his blog.)
Fourteen-year-old Emily wrote poetry.
Fourteen-year-old Emily idolized Jordan.
Fourteen-year-old Emily wanted to blog, too.
Following in Jordan’s too-big-to-fill footsteps, 14-year-old Emily became “Blackbyrd” and started writing about stupid shit. Stupid shit that, at the time, seemed relevant and important. Stupid shit that is, of course, entirely too fun to look back on now.
To go with the theme here, I wrote 14 posts this month six years ago. Fourteen. Now any number over five is an accomplishment because – and you’ve heard me say this before – writing on my blog takes me forever.
Now I put in 43 hours a week at my very corporate summer job. In 2008? Work had no relevance. With food on the table and a pool to swim in on the hotter days, I spent my time reading and, I guess, posting on my blog. Excessively, I daresay.
Twenty-year-old Emily still writes poetry. (She actually slams it, too.)
Twenty-year-old Emily still idolizes Jordan.
Twenty-year-old Emily still wants to blog and tries to as often as she can, but, after actually learning how to write, posting takes her a lot longer than it used to.
Twenty-year-old Emily lives on her own and provides for herself.
Twenty-year-old Emily is fully aware of her upcoming career search, apartment search, friend search, life search.
Still, twenty-year-old Emily couldn’t believe it when this notification popped up when she logged into WordPress today:
Cheers to present Emily, the past Emilys and hello to 2015, fresh-out-of-college Emily. Everything will be okay. It always is.
Writing sucks. A lot (of dick, if we’re going beyond PG here).
Writing takes me forever.
So that explains my absence. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve conjured up the “Add New Post” screen, only to look at the clock and realize two hours of writing would cut my sleeping time down immensely.
Writing a post means spending time away from the book I’ve been reading or the people I could get to know. Writing means solitude, a word and thing I’ve been trying to avoid as of late. Writing means having to pay close attention to detail and trying so very hard not to make a mistake I’m sure my “enemies” would call me out on Twitter for.
Three years of college and I’ve made some enemies, apparently. Imagine that.
I’ve spent the last couple days at home, watching my grandparents’ belongings get sold to strangers and Walnut trees fall in all their green-and-brown glory.
Some things are ending, but others are beginning. Like my life. My life, man.
Seven credits of college classes separate me from what I’m told is actually – this time – the “real world.” They had lied to me before when I graduated from high school. College isn’t the real world. College is the excuse I use for the drunken weekends and the hangover I have on Friday mornings that is too severe to make it through that morning’s class. But the professor understands when I email him. It’s college, after all.
More than 30 credits separated me from life then. Now I’m down to seven. Seven credits. Seven.
I could graduate early. Get a job. Leave my friends. Get an apartment. Save money. Pay back my loans.
Writing is hard, yet I’m trying to make a career out of it.
A career that I can actually see now. A career where an email on Friday morning from a hungover Emily just won’t fly anymore. I’m more mature than most at my age, but I am having difficulty with accepting this.
I was typing last night whilst sitting upright in bed and I realized just how much I enjoy the sound of keys getting tapped on a keyboard. So, here I am once again. It’s nearly midnight on yet another Sunday night in my life. Another week is gone and I keep getting older with every second that passes. It’s kind of a scary though, isn’t it?
I had been living in a dazed state up until recently. People didn’t bother me during that short amount of time and I found myself smiling for no reason at people I hardly even knew. However, lately people have been getting on my nerves more than ever. Maybe it’s because of the last week I have lived through that was hellish even without the assistance of the people that keep making their entrances and exits in my life. But, in that hell of a week I lived through I gained and retained friendships with some of the nicest people I have ever met. Everything happens for a reason.
There are some people who I know are living their lives while looking through masks they have molded throughout the years. I’d like to believe that they are the people they say they are, but I know better than to believe a single word they say. I’m sad that they are who they are. I wish I could change them for the better. From now on, I’ve decided to ignore who they are behind their facades and just deal with the people that they’re showing. There must be a reason why they’re hiding everything else, and who am I to expose it and question it? I’ve decided it’s none of my business despite the intense bout of curiosity I am feeling. I’ve decided to take advice from The Beatles and just “Let It Be.”
I’m growing up; I’m moving on; I’m getting things accomplished. I am so proud of myself for that. I’m not going to waste time worrying about the other people that come into my life. People that are only going to leave the next minute.
First, I’d like to congratulate you. Happy fiftieth birthday! I won’t bore you with any of those “getting older” Hallmark cards. Old age obviously doesn’t affect you in any way. I mean, c’mon, you’re made of plastic. People pay big bucks to have that stuff injected into their faces, and you have it made. It’s in your genes. Embrace it. Your age doesn’t show on any of your faces.
We’ve had good times over the years. Playing for hours at your house, mixing it up and socializing with some Fisher Price “kids,” going swimming in the summer heat, going bowling, and opening a schoolhouse and pet shop. Sure, our businesses didn’t fluorish, but our friendship did. I’m sorry I misplaced many of your shoes, and I am also apologetic for leaving you naked on the carpet due to my short attention span. But hey, I made up for it by helping you and Ken ice skate and by going on a cruise with you and Skipper. Riding in your convertible with “Barbie Girl” by Aqua playing was a blast.
Your vacation home was so much fun to play in, but my favorite was definitely your mansion (which I still keep downstairs). The elevator never failed to entertain me. We had fun walking the dog together, right? And don’t you dare forget celebrating Easter together with Kelly! I will never forget going to a Girl Scout sleepover and watching a presentation by a Barbie expert who had millions of you set up on a table in the front of the room. You have played so many characters and taken so many shapes!
Anyway, Barb, I guess where I am getting at is that watching the Jeopardy! category pop up called “Fifty Years With Barbie” really brought back some memories. Happy memories. Memories I will always cherish. Thanks for helping me celebrate birthdays, and I’m sorry I graduated to the much smaller and petite Polly Pocket, but you should always know that I hold a special place for you in my heart. Maybe my little girl will dig up all of my old dolls of you from my parents’ basement and play with them; just as I did with my mother’s old dolls. Happy Birthday, Barbie. It’s been fun. Fifty years have passed, but it doesn’t show on you. I swear.