Dear Current Andover Students

Dear Andover students,

You don't know me. My name is not in any record book on campus and there's no landmark that bears my name. But I'm a part of your Andover family and my heart hurts for and with every one of you.

I won't claim to know exactly how you're feeling right now. No one can claim that. Each of you will experience this day and all the days to come differently. What I will say is that each and every one of your feelings is valid. The pain, the shock, the anger and yes, even the numbness, are all feelings that your grief has earned you.  

I'm writing this because I see you. It's been 17 years since I lost my friend Zach in a similarly tragic way. And I still know there's a small hole in my heart that is a leftover from that lost. It is part of the tapestry of my life now, and I wouldn't replace it. Daniel will live on inside each of you. And I promise you that there be will many moments in your future, when his memory will bring you great comfort. His legacy will be those moments when you listen a little longer to a person who needs to talk, or when you get that feeling to call a friend who you haven't connected with in a while just to say hello.  

I won't say "feel better" or "I'm so sorry" because you've already heard it. You'll hear it so often in the ongoing days and weeks. And one day, when people say it fewer and fewer and may even stop saying it at all, you might feel anger and  wonder "don't they know I still hurt?" 

What I will say is: Be Kind. Be kind to each other. There will be some who need to be held, in your arms and in your thoughts, right now at this very moment. There will be others who find themselves crying seven months later and wont know why. Be present for them. Be a presence for them. Sit in silence with each other if that's what you need right now. Eat way too much at Bertucci's together if that gives you some comfort. Sing for each other. Work out together. Pause with one another. To this day, beyond my family, there is NO ONE I'd rather do absolutely nothing with than an Andover friend. 

Also, and this is so important, be kind to yourselves. There is no right way to grieve. Unconscionable losses are called that for a reason. I wish none of you had to learn how you would react in this moment. I grieve the loss of innocence for so many of you. Some of you will want and need to take care of everyone else around you. Some of you will need to be taken care of. There is no shame in either of those positions and it is okay to swap them as often or as rarely as you need. And, though it may feel uncomfortable, reach out to the adults in the community. They want to be there for you. And I promise you that they can be part of the glue that helps build you back up when you're feeling broken. 

For the seniors... I don't think there are any such thing as the "right" words for you. These next several days will pass in a blur and also is super slow motion detail at the same time. And there is still so much on your plates for this year. I want you to know that while this will forever be a part of your Andover history, this moment of immense pain will not define it. You are allowed to have moments when you feel "okay" and eventually, even moments of happiness. As you grow older, you'll learn that mourning and embracing joy don't have to be mutually exclusive. Your smiles may grow dimmer and fewer and further between for a while, but each one will still be so beautiful. 

I want you to know how deeply each of you is loved. I want you to know that there are thousands of people in the Big Blue community who root for you, admire you, and pray for you every single day. Your potential for greatness is unlimited. But more importantly, who you are RIGHT NOW, is already so very much. It is more than enough. 

I tend to think life often delivers messages to you exactly when you need them. And I'll mention a small moment that has resonated for me for many years. My cousin Diallo has always been an affectionate guy, often to the point of silliness. Once, after a long absence, he gave me a particularly long and dramatic hug. And I started to complain in the way one does when joking with family, and he said "Life's too short so you have to hug longer."  

I think about that often now. Loss is hard and sadly, to some extent, a guarantee. So when you see someone you love, take a moment to listen a little harder, laugh a little louder, and indeed, hug a little longer. 

Love and sympathy from your Big Blue Family.   

First Dates are the best...I mean worst

So I had a thought the other day.  I had my first date/"boyfriend" when I was 10 years old. And since I didn't marry him (because, eew... insert Kentucky/West Virginia joke here) I have continued to date. That means that I have literally been on this merry-go-round of love for almost 23 years. TWENTY THREE YEARS! You would think that with 23 years of experience, I would eventually be good at this. But no, sadly, I'm still playing at the amateur level for all intents and purposes.

But here's what makes it fun. I did a recent tally, and I've been on something like 15 first dates in the past year, plus or minus. And first dates are hilarious. They're awkward, they're occasionally awesome, but usually just a lot of build up to very little return. And these facts are fairly universal. I LOVE talking about crazy first dates with friends. If you've met me, you know I'm a story teller. And I really believe any situation is worth being a part of, as long as I can tell a good story afterwards. When I was in my twenties, this belief lent itself to some crazy stories that 30 year old Dulciña would never entertain now. But luckily this reasonable, don't waste my time chick didn't emerge until my late 20's so we still have all the stories to tell, usually over a glass of red wine.

For this post, I've decided to gather some of the favorite stories I've gathered from my own life AND the lives of my other friends who are either still in the market, or have gladly left the single lifestyle behind. I make the disclaimer now that if it sounds like you, um sorry. Take it for a compliment. Apparently, while I might be mocking you, I still like you enough that you have access to my blogger thoughts.

So without further ado, here are more Do's and (mostly) Don'ts for first-ish dates (some creative license has been taken to include the occasional second date).

DO pay/offer to pay for the first date if you get any sense that the lady is a traditionalist. Do NOT pull out an envelope with cash, instead of a wallet and say "Wow" three times when the bill comes, especially if you order the lobster and your date orders the cheapest thing on the menu and water.

DO offer the lady a compliment if you think she deserves it. Do NOT tell the lady on the first date any of weird kinky things you want to do to her private parts, feet, underarms, hair or really anywhere else when you've been out for exactly 30 minutes.

DO try to sound smart if you are. Vocabulary is important to some girls. Do NOT throw out words like caligynephobia to try to impress your dates when what your really saying is "hey you're pretty and someone has accused me of being this word that sounds like a venereal disease but is really just a way of saying that I was actually more socially awkward in my distant past than I am now."

DO send the flirty text with emojis if that's your thing after the date. Do NOT send the dick pic. Ever, preferably, for some women. But generally, if she hasn't seen it in real life, it is NOT the time to send it over via text message. Also, if you're at work and you send us a pic from your home bathroom, we notice. We KNOW the picture was just sitting in your picture gallery ready to be sent at the "right" time. And if you are sending it from work, DUDE, where the hell do you work? Also, google auto saves all photos, so now your dick pic is a forever part of her internet life. She will not be thanking you for that. Except for 1 or 2 of you. She may thank you. You know who you are.


DO be single when you ask someone on a date. Why I have to say this, I don't know, but apparently, it's a thing. Do NOT talk about your CURRENT 2nd wife (3rd if you count commonwealth) while trying to convince a girl to become your mistress/side piece. Not only is it terrible form in general, but the girl will go home trying to figure out if she somehow presented herself as sidepiece friendly.

DO offer to pay for drinks. Do NOT offer gifts on first dates, especially money.Call me old school, but if money is being exchanged before last names, that feels awful close to prostitution or at least escort-adjacent.

DO look good on a first date. After all first impressions are important, and while women may not decide whether or not they want to get with you on a first date, they definitely determine whether or not they are willing to. Do NOT look prettier than the woman you're going out with. If you're going to a simple bar on Tuesday, leave the three piece suit with matching ascot at home. Even if your orange gators or cowboy boots are your favorite accessories, perhaps leaves those as a special surprise for date number three or four.

Do NOT neg your dates. I really don't care which MTV jack-behind said this was a good thing to do, real women with self esteem will never respond well. If you deliberately want to be an ass, stay home and leave real women alone. Netflix and wine will always make us happy. Dates telling us that we're as cute as their exes but maybe not as a successful yet, can go suck a big fat lemon and stop wasting our favorite post work hours.

DO talk about what you're currently looking for in your dating life. Do NOT tell ridiculous stories about your exes that make you look like a douche. This should be self explanatory, but people really are dumber than you think.

DO ask someone if they had a good time on your date. Feedback is important after all. Do NOT assume they had a good enough time that now she'll want to cook you meals and perform sexual favors at your house (dude, you're still a stranger) on the second date if you only invite her to do so.

DO be yourself. She wants to get to know you, not your date friendly representative. That being said Do NOT let your freak flag fly on the first date. If your dates ask you what you're into, and you say 50 shades of grey-esque stuff/licking dirty toes/unicorn porn etc., the average female will immediately exit stage right. We really wanted to hear about your fantasy football league and obsession with rafting.


DO own your sports obsessions in a reasonable way. If #Knicktape is your thing and the G-Men own your fall, that's fine. Do NOT cry over sports on the first date. Your parents are still alive. Get yourself together, man. (And I say that as a huge Duke bball fan. I also don't go on first dates during Duke games because I know better)

DO go for a first date hug, and occasional kiss, depending on the woman and the overall vibe. Do  NOT take off all of your clothes while she's not looking and say "surprise, guess who came to join the party!"

DO say that your were not feeling the date/the vibe/the chemistry or whatever. Do NOT say that she was the best thing since sliced bread and then duck phone calls and texts like you're in witness protection.

DO ask questions on a first date. Do NOT take notes. Seriously. Paper and pen should never be a part of a coffee date.

DO be sensitive and listen to your date, especially if you have just met. Do NOT feel like this is the time to grab her hand and read her the poem you wrote about raindrops, lust & pain, or the song you wrote about the juxtaposition of your relationship with your mama and the time you were kicked in the balls that one time in grade school.

DO be honest. Google is the truth serum of us all. Do NOT tell me you were born in the wilds of some weird third world country that doesn't speak English, but your name really is John Smith.

Unfortunately many of us have been on the wrong side of the "Do NOT" column on our first dates, and yet we continue to put ourselves out there. Why? Because sometimes you make us laugh. Sometimes you make us forget the doldrums of  our normal 9-5 and excite us. Sometimes you look at us and make the efforts of the short skirts and tight heels worth it. Sometimes you smell or sound so good that we're seduced into trying one more time. And sometimes you do all of  that and provide wine. And for all of that and much more, when you say "Hey, are you free on Saturday?" we'll continue to say "Sure, what do you have in mind?" And humankind will continue to grow and love and thrive as it always has. And as it is always meant to.  
 

  

Two stories

From as long as I can remember, the month of February has been a touch one for me. Beyond all the silly Valentine's day nonsense, and the cold weather and snow, and general lack of sunshine, this month has always seemed to drag on. In high school, my house counselors realized just how awful the month was and started something called "February friends", which was basically a month long version of Secret Santa. We would select someone in our dorm at random, and be tasked to give them small gifts and notes throughout the month as a pick me up, revealing ourselves at the end of the month. It was a small thing, but something I now appreciate and remember fondly.

As I started writing this today, I'm sitting on an amtrak train heading back to the city and feeling really nostalgic, because Amtrak was such a big part of my boarding school life. And I can't help but think, man I wish I still had a February friend. Because what ultimately makes this my most difficult month every single year was something that happened 15 years ago today. A friend, someone who I loved, took their own life. And in many ways, big and small, that changed mine.

Link to original article in the Phillipian

I've had several years to process how I felt that day, and the big blur that seems to sit over that day, that week, that month and maybe even that year. I remember what felt like a good, even normal day of classes. I remember an awkward heart wrenching meeting in the Nathan Hale Common room. I remember desperately searching for friends who had been sequestered. I remember sitting in a chair in the CAMD office not talking, not really seeing for 20 minutes, or maybe 2 hours, I don't actually know. I remember eating everything that was put in front of me because I knew I had to eat, but not tasting anything. I remember seeking out and then breaking down under the half mast flag in the middle of the courtyard. I remember yelling at a friend who had also had her battles with depression to never do this to me again. I remember my mother and brother driving up to Massachusetts because they heard something broken in my voice. I remember hearing Amazing Grace or His Eye was on the Sparrow in the chapel and feeling my heart break all over again. I remember standing on a line, introducing myself to and hugging his mom and hearing her say that her son loved me. So many moments, and there are so many more, shared and private that will always resonate and resurface, especially today. 

But that's not why I'm writing this today. Today I want to talk about two more, two good moments that were mine and Zach's alone that I think about often but don't share as much. When I was a junior in high school, I was a pretty smart kid, but I was still learning how to dream bigger. I had the grades and profile to get into the best schools in the country, and ultimately did, but for whatever reason, I hadn't really started thinking those dreams could be mine yet. They were still for others; the "traditional" boarding school kids, the legacies, the kids who were whiter than me, richer than me, less female than me, more everything that I didn't consider myself to be yet. I ran into Zach randomly after a college counseling session where my college counselor and I had started to work on my college application list for the following year. I was still early in my research about high caliber colleges and thought that one of the schools on my list was the name of a big state school, rather than a similar sounding school, which was one of the best small liberal arts colleges in the nation.

I don't remember exactly what Zach said to me in that moment but it was along the lines of "Candace, you're not applying to a state school, even as a safety,  because you're going to get into every school you apply to." And I'm pretty sure in that special "I'm so wise but I'm willing to share my knowledge with you because I like you" way that he had, we had a conversation about my goals and where he saw me in a year's time. And at the end of that talk, he had made me feel ridiculous, smart and talented, all at the same time. It was one of his talents. Even when you lost a debate with Zach, you felt like you had won more knowledge for having been involved. That moment and that conversation really mattered to me. He had always been my ideal of all those things that seemed to "belong" when I saw myself as "other" and he had the faith in my dreams before I was brave enough to even have them. Later on, when I did well with the college application cycle, and a classmate claimed "affirmative action" to a friend of mine, I never doubted whether I was worthy of my successes. And that can partly be attributed to the boost of confidence that random conversation gave me a year earlier.

Fast forward to senior fall. At my high school, 11th grade spring, and senior fall are the hardest semesters on deck for all the normal reasons (SATs, APs, harder classes, college applications, angst about the future, etc.) During my spring of 11th grade, I developed a benign cyst on my tailbone that required surgery, a lot of pain, and several weeks of recovery and special cushioned seats. It was not easy to deal with in the middle of writing my History 300 paper (for Mr. Jay Rogers, another fine man and teacher taken too soon).  And I'm the first to admit that I'm a pansy when I'm sick. But I made it through and went on with my year, including an incredible summer spent in Spain with Zach and 16 other classmates who were part of one of the best summers in my life.

When I came back to school in the fall of senior year, I was feeling some minor sensitivity in the same area and went to the doctor to get it checked out. I was told that the cyst might have come back and I may have to go through the entire process again (ultimately, I didn't). We didn't have cellphones back then so I couldn't call my mom to freak out until I got back to the dorm. Once again, randomly, as I walked across the Great Lawn thinking about why this was happening to me, and what if this was something more serious, and could I really be sick again while away from home for several weeks, I ran into Zach. He asked me how I was and I said "fine" and I tried to continue walking, but he stopped and asked me again, because that's who he was. He cared and he sensed when people weren't feeling right, and he felt it was his job to help those in need, especially those he considered friend. And as I tried to explain what I had just heard (which I'm sure came out as gibberish), for the first time in my high school career, where occasional homesickness and stress related tears were common place for many but never for me, I broke down and cried in front of him. And in the middle of that big lawn, in the middle of that random day, he hugged me and told me that everything was going to be okay, and that no matter what happened, I was going to get through it because he knew I was strong. There are many memories that make up the story of our friendship, but that one was the one that assured me, no matter where life would take us, and even if we never kept in touch, a part of me would always love him and wish him the best for the rest of our lives. I just never knew that time would be cut so short. I'm not sure if I ever thanked him for those moments, but I'm a person of faith, so I have to believe he hears me when I think of him.

I wish many things. Stupid things. I sometimes google Zach's name, not because I'm looking for the past, but because I like to see the legacies that others with that name are building and try to picture where he would be (clearly at the top of all searches). I wish that he had a facebook account so anytime I wanted to see his face, I could just type in his name and relive his all encompassing smile in technicolor. I wish I could hear him argue.... and argue.... and argue... some point, irregardless of whether it was trivial or important, with the same passion and desire to win the debate. I wish I could make fun of his overly bright blond hair in Salamanca or watch him wear that green Dartmouth shirt one more time. I wish I could hear his laugh. I wish many things.

The year I was set to graduate from college, on my way back from a senior trip to Cape Cod, I made a stop in Acton to visit his grave for the first time. I did what I always do when my heart is too full, I wrote. I reread that note to myself almost every year around this time and I reminisce about the good and the bad, and all the in between. Our lives are made up of and filled with the "in between", because that's where all the memories live forever. As I finish writing this post, now at home, on my computer, the light overhead had started to dim and eventually it faded to black. It seems suiting to let this post sorta fade away in a similar way.

"...but know that as long as I live, you'll hold a special place in my heart, deep where I don't let a lot go, but also where I hold those things most dear." - CD, May 2004

We miss you still, our friend. We always will.

What you don't know...

A few years ago, when I was still in the middle of my active caregiving and wasn't "working" but actively setting up a caregiving plan for my grandmother, I started dating a guy. Ultimately, details about the guy are unimportant, but I remember there being conflict that I didn't have the same flexibility in schedule as a "normal girl."

I couldn't do spontaneous dates (Who was going to watch Grandma THAT last minute?). If I was out too many late nights, invariably when I returned home my Grandmother would be going through old letters at 2am because no one was in the room to tell her to stay in bed. Medication would still be sitting on a table because there was a point when only I could convince her to take her night medication. Although I wasn't working, I had to physically be in my house every weekday morning at 7am to help my grandmother shower and let home health aides into the house. And overnights had to meticulously fit into a schedule that worked for me, my mom, and various home health aides. That will take the romance out of an overnight quickly. 

At the time, I felt some resentment, because I remembered when I was  fun. Don't get me wrong, I've always been a little uptight about my schedule, and I'm like the only person under 75 who still walks around with a physical planner. But I remember that glorious time, post college, when I had disposable income, and was over 21, and that was all I needed to be down for a good time. Not so much during that time in my life. I remember actively wishing that the boy could know the me BEFORE, the one without so many... responsibilities. I felt like I was never presenting my best self to him and that he was somehow signing on for so much more by getting involved with me at that point in my life. Ultimately, other things led to the dissolution of that situation, but I carried that concern for years afterwards. 

Fast forward to present day. I went on a few dates around the holidays last year, and every time I mentioned that every weekend I go visit my grandmother at her nursing home, the date would usually reply: "That's nice of you." Now, don't get me wrong. That is a normal response. In fact, that's a nice response. These guys probably thought they were saying something about me being a good granddaughter/person. 

And yet, for a brief moment, internally, I would get stunningly angry. Like yelling inside my head angry. In my head, I would reply "What the hell? Of course I visit her every weekend. And that still doesn't feel like enough. And I'm losing her slowly. And that's like losing a part of me slowly. AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA!"

And that is usually where I would stop, because honestly, they would have NO idea. How could they? They never met that version of me. They didn't know me when my day revolved around taking care of her. They'll never know that at one point I could recite verbatim the names, dosages and common effects of medications that treated memory, bladder control, heart burn, blood pressure, seizures and so on. They don't know that even after I started working, I was waking up 2x a night to help her walk to the bathroom, when she became a serious fall risk. Or that my mom and I didn't go to the grocery store for over a month because we couldn't both leave the house at the same time on a weekend. No, they'll never know that version of me. 

Is it wrong that I feel sad about that? From late 2008 until just 8 months ago, that was my life. And I feel like that part of my life is just as intrinsically a part of my person as my brown eyes, my 5'4" frame, or my big behind. The physical markings of my being caregiver may never be present, but I feel them, everyday as part of my soul. 

Are new people in my life going to always miss out on that part of me? Will I eventually be able to accept that five years of my life can be summed up as being "nice of me?" I'm not sure. I'll let you know when I figure it out.  

       

A way to say goodbye

A few days ago a family member passed away. She was the mother of my uncle's wife and she died after a brief bout with a very aggressive form of cancer. I am incredibly sad about her passing on behalf of everyone who knew her because she was an phenomenally remarkable woman. She is gone too soon and it reminds me how much cancer really really sucks.

I tell you a bit more. I was first alerted that she was sick over the summer and I think I told myself, there was no chance that cancer could take her. She was lively. She was beautiful. She was strong. And she just wasn't done living yet. I tricked myself.  I continued to receive the occasional updates from my mom who was in touch with my uncle Things were getting worse. Everyone was preparing for the worse. I found myself stopping in the middle of the day to pray for her. At Thanksgiving, before my family sat down to eat I asked my aunt to say a short prayer specifically for her.

A couple of days later I left for vacation in South America, where I am currently. Since I have no phone down here, I was told that Mrs. Joan Marsh, this incredible woman, had passed away via a facebook message from my brother.  I will likely not make it back to Jamaica for the funeral, but I wanted, no NEEDED to take a moment to acknowledge her life and impact.

Mrs. Marsh was a woman who you only had to meet one time to remember for the rest of your life. When I first met her, I was staying in Jamaica as a preteen, visiting my uncle and his eventual wife, Tanya. It was my first trip to Jamaica on my own for a whole summer. Her family took me in, as if, just by virtue of being related to someone in their lives, I was now forever a part of theirs. The Marsh's have a way of absorbing a person. No hesitation, just humor, welcome and love. And I always thought a large part of that was because of Mrs. Marsh. She always felt like the light in every room she walked into.

And my G-d, how her family adored her. Not just loved her in the way that we all do with family, but they were, each one, from her eldest son to her littlest grandbaby, in love with her. As soon as she walked into a room, every member flocked to her. When I had the honor to be a part of their family gatherings, it always seemed like once she had arrived, the whole essence of the get-together would shift and become full of as yet untapped joy. It felt like upon her arrival, finally, all the really good things could start to happen. It was remarkable to watch and it was remarkable to be a part of.

I admired her. I still do. Her presence was like a cashmere scarf, equal parts warm, cozy and exquisite. She touched people in  a way that made them better. And she had the unique ability to make you feel special, not only for that moment when you were in her presence, but also for all the recollections afterwards. I'll miss her and my heart is broken for her children and grandchildren.

I knew only a small portion of Mrs. Marsh life story. I only saw her maybe once a year or every other year. But she left an indelible mark on my person and she was family. I pray for her as I know she did for many while on this earth.

I am thankful that I see her mark and that same ability to be effortlessly welcoming on my aunt, and her son, my cousin. And I know that when we all eventually move on from this place to the next, she will be there, greeting and welcoming us all with a special twinkle in her eye and a smile meant just for us. Rest in Peace Mrs. Marsh.

“If I die, I will wait for you, do you understand? No matter how long. I will watch from beyond to make sure you live every year you have to its fullest, and then we’ll have so much to talk about when I see you again…" (Bones) 

Trying to Control my Inner 3rd Grader

I have a good memory. Like, a very good memory. I remember exact conversations, which makes it very difficult to argue with me. I can tell you one little fact or story about every single person who graduated with me in my class from high school. I worked in retail real estate for a few years and I can still tell you the name, city, state and crime rates of malls across the country that I've never been in. This generally makes me pretty good at my job, whatever it may be. This also means that my memory is long, and I have been known to hold a grudge or two.

This sometimes translates into me being a petty on occasion. I recognize this as a flaw, but I try to balance this out by being petty in a less noticeable, and always vaguely deniable way. How does that work? At my old office, whenever the person I didn't like asked questions to the group, I never answered, even if I knew the answer. They had to ask me directly. When my brother annoys me, I buy snacks and drinks that I know he doesn't like. When customer service reps annoy me, I make them repeat the way they did me wrong before I allow us move on. It's a failing of character, but hopefully its not too bad. And ultimately, after my little petty displays, I feel like the balance has been righted somehow cosmically.

This is NOT a good personality trait for a caregiver. Regularly, things happen, things are said, and you're taught to get over it. It's not the person, it's the disease. Insert the Serenity Prayer here. But, I've got to tell you, completely acknowledging how this sounds, it is INCREDIBLY difficult to not feel or act petty. In a 24 hour stretch, my grandmother has called me fat like little pig (in the West Indian truth telling sorta way), told me I had the devil in me, asked me for ice cream, needed me to help her take her shower, woken me up at 4am for a 30 minute bathroom break, woken me up to make her tea, complained about how hot the tea was and refused to put on pants. All on a Saturday, when I had a cold. So, all that being said, guess who didn't get ice cream that day. Sorry, I just couldn't. It felt like I was rewarding the child throwing a temper tantrum in a store with a new toy AND candy.

I am a master of the quick rejoinder, and yet, every single day, I hold back my natural retorts. I don't say anything about the times my feelings are hurt. And I swear, in the mornings, I move around in stealth mode JUST to avoid waking up my grandmother and having to deal with her 30 minute bathroom breaks, in hopes that she'll stay asleep until the home health aide shows up. In weak moments, I'll admit, I've PRAYED "Please stay asleep. Please stay asleep." Does that mean, if she gets up I won't help? Nope. But with no thanks coming my way, and knowing that I'll be accused of wanting her to drop dead, just because I insist she washes her hands, is it so wrong to want to push that off on the person being paid to do this? Especially when she is SO much nicer to them? My inner third grader reacts to the injustice of it all. The third grader in me objects to always being nice to someone who isn't always nice to me. The third grader in me wants to says mean things back. The third grader in me wants to refuse to play or help the big meanie.

But then, sometimes, and I'll admit, not nearly as often as I should, I'll remember that actual third grader. The eight year old girl who grew up in a house with my grandmother. The grandmother who bought me pretty shoes, and made me special meatballs, and came to all my dance shows. The grandmother who kept all the terrible cheap Christmas gifts I insisted upon giving everyone since I was five. The grandmother who covered her walls and mirrors with photos of me, even when we lived in the same apartment. And the grandmother, who, when she had the capacity to know and say so, always told me she missed me while I was away at school.

Part of who I am today is thanks to this woman. A big part of why I've always felt secure in my family's love is because of how she raised her offspring. Goodness, the reason why I'm a bougie black girl with a similar "presidential" education, is because she came to this country and worked hard enough to bring each of her five children here too. On the really tough days, it can be easy to forget that.

But my memory is good. And when it's hard, I have to remember that.

My thirties are like a a Toby Keith song

"I'm not as good as I once was. But I'm as good ONCE as I ever was."

You ever hear a song and just immediately relate? I know 30 is not old. I really do. I make fun of myself, and call myself an old lady, but what I'm really saying is that I feel a sharp divide between where I'm at mentally now and where I was at 20, or even 25. And my brain, sense of humor, and indeed my body, are all chomping at the bit to let me know that "Hey, you're not 20 anymore." Here are just a few examples of how I know this. 

I used to be able to do this multiple times in a row

Dancing- I LOVE dancing. If you know me, you know this. There is nothing better than going out there, hearing your JAM and sweating out your hair like you've got nowhere to go tomorrow. BUT here's the thing. In college I was part of a dance group. In my senior year, I did a solo to Prince (cause c'mon that's awesome) and I launched myself off a chair, touched both my toes and landed in a split bounce. 

Take a moment and picture that. I jumped off a chair, touched my toes, and landed in a split bounce on the floor and then SWITCHED to bounce on the other side. I'm not sure, but that may be one of the proudest moments of my life.

I went out the other night to a birthday party, and they played Nellie’s “Drop Down and Get your Eagle on.” I got down, but before I did, I seriously took a moment to consider if I was gonna make it back up. It was closer call than I would have preferred. I recently lost a bet, which will require me to drop into a split bounce sometime soon in public. Let’s hope Toby Keith was right.

Health- I’m a baby when I’m sick. And I’ve been fortunate to not have had any really bad illnesses for years (including two years when I had no health insurance). But I swear, a few weeks after I turned thirty, I got heartburn for the very first time. I got it again a couple of weeks ago and it was so bad that I did a google search: the difference between heartburn and heart attacks. That’s where my head was at, it was so bad. Now I own multi-berry tums, and have to avoid Qdoba.

Drinking- So the other day, I came to the realization that I’m the chump who doesn’t drink hard liquor. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I was whiskey/gin/scotch/bourbon chick in college. But now, with very minor exceptions (mojitos, anything with lychee, or trips to all-inclusive hotels) I NEVER choose to drink any hard alcohol. I am a draft beer, cider, wine and bottled corona type of girl. I’ve also gone to a bar and ordered hot tea (and was TOO excited when they told me they had peppermint). I don’t day drink unless I’m guaranteed a nap afterwards. As a college connoisseur of boxed wine, $4.99 handles of Dubra and foam parties, I’m a little ashamed of how “refined” I’ve become in old age.

Being inconvenienced – No one enjoys waiting. But man, was I willing back in my early 20’s. I waited on lines in heels in the cold for hours. I was always too cheap to pay for cabs to go anywhere.  I would visit friends and sleep on floors or share twin beds. 

(Side note: Seriously, how did we manage to get it on and share twin beds in college? The logistics alone baffle me now.) 

Yay, I don’t do any of the anymore. There’s nowhere I want to be so badly to wait hours. I will commit to do ONE of those parties twice a year, and usually only for very special occasion. Driving my car to parties is awesome. Cabs are awesome. Homeless people who smell and/or try to hit on you on the train at 3am: not so awesome. And I only stay with friends if a spare bed or comfy couch is guaranteed. Otherwise, hotels suites are sweet.  

I'm ok with not being that girl anymore. I miss her sometimes but, the beauty of it is, that every once in awhile, when the occasion merits it, she comes back. I'll open up and SHUT DOWN the club, in heels nonetheless. I've been known to rediscover my love of the jello shots. And because I am still rocking with the same crew for over 15 years, I know that when we get together, the night always has the possibility of getting EPIC. And if three or four of manage to crash on a twin bed at the end of night, out of pure exhaustion, we'll make it work. Like Toby says:

I still throw a few back, talk a little smack
When I'm feeling bullet proof
So don't double-dog dare me now
Cause I might have to call your bluff
I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good ONCE
As I ever was