While cleaning out my old room at my parents’ house this past weekend, I came upon my old diary from seventh grade. It had apparently been out in plain sight for some time, stuck on a bookshelf for anyone to read. As in, hey, look, Popular Mechanics, Interviews for Dummies, and Lindsay’s Hopes and Dreams, all for your reading pleasure. And my parents wonder why I have no qualms about discussing my personal life on the Internet.
The sad part about my journal was that the majority of it was me going on and on about school and homework. There were endless pages of discussions on how stressed I was by the rigors of middle school algebra and countless listings of the status of my grades, which ultimately ended up being straight As. As I was reading through the journal, I finally came upon a sentence that gave me a ray of hope that I would not end up being that woman who chews her hair and wears baggy cardigans and thick glasses. Halfway through, I had written, “Looking back in here, all I really ever talked about was school and grades. That was silly!” And I thought to myself, THANK GOD. A sign that I was a normal child. But that relief was short-lived, because I read on and saw, “Why waste paper?” I mean, surely I could have used that paper more efficiently.
There were some juicy parts however, like when I described the first time a boy ever asked me out and the subsequent dumping that resulted. Brian, if you’re reading this, I didn’t really appreciate the way you pulled me aside in the cafeteria. You could have AT LEAST waited until I’d made it through the lunch line. But don’t worry. A few entries later, I decided that “single life is good”. I was twelve. I didn’t even wear deodorant yet (I know because I wrote about it), but I knew even then that boys were trouble.
I also spent a good bit of time discussing my various insecurities, including my imperfect complexion, my general lack of popularity, my excess arm hair, and my flat chest. As I saw it, girls without breasts were mocked and shunned, while girls with large chests led perfect lives and were adored by everyone. I guess you could say I got the last laugh with those boys who teased me, but then again, I also learned a painful lesson. Big breasts do not give you happily ever after unless your idea of endless bliss involves expensive, functional lingerie.
My parents will be delighted to know that I also managed to include the sentence, “I don’t think I’m moving too fast, but I have to take my opinion and my parents’ opinion into consideration.” I know, I know, you’d have to see it to believe it. I’m going to have that section cut out, framed, and shipped to my Dad for his birthday. The first thing he’ll do is triple-check the return address and then call me to ask if I’m pulling his leg. No, Dad, I’m not. I actually said that in earnest at one point. Before I knew better.
The most prevalent theme other than the endless focus on school was my tendency to apologize repeatedly for not writing more frequently. I just remember feeling pressured to write in the journal regularly, like I thought my diary would get angy and not call because I hadn’t written in a few days. At the end of the book, I wrote that I’d decided not to do another journal because I didn’t like feeling obligated to write. Little did I know that I would eventually keep another diary, except that I would publish it on the Internet and allow everyone in the world to read that I’m still concerned about my overgrowth of armhair.
On the last page of my diary was my final closing analysis, one that I think speaks volumes about my wisdom and mindset at the time: “Even if my skin isn’t perfect, I lead a good life.” World poverty, crime, and economic strife be damned; I’ve come to terms with my flawed face and realized that life isn’t so bad.