July 21, 2004~~12:11 p.m.
The Boxes of my Life
DISCLAIMER: The following essay should be taken as only being thoughtful, not WISHFUL that I had a different life. Please do not judge me or derive that I am not happy in my present situation. And most certainly, please don�t call my mother about this. I tried to write this sentiment before and failed miserably. Let�s see if I can do it right this time. ~~~ There is a country song that I have only heard once on the radio entitled something like �In the Back of the Bottom Drawer.� It is about a woman who has a box of mementos from previous relationships that she keeps in the back of her bottom drawer where her husband doesn�t look. She goes on to sing about how she is reminded of the men she used to love and who loved her and the things they went through which served to make her a better partner for her husband. The song made me cry when I heard it. I can relate to that because I, too, have a box. Actually, I have a few. My oldest box dates back to my very first �real� boyfriend. It is filled with a lot of teenage letters. We used to write to each other from class all day. I was a Freshman in high school. It may be clich�, but there really is nothing like your first love. The onslaught of passion for that person, the despair when you finally separate; it is all just so intense. We have always had completely separate goals and lifestyles and we were and would have been completely wrong for each other, but love doesn�t know reason. We remained friends for many years after and there was always an unexplainable bond between us. When I read those letters that are over ten years old, and even subsequent ones, I can still feel that heartache that came both in nearness and distance. Because your heart does ache with love, sometimes, doesn�t it? From him, I learned that love sometimes doesn�t make sense and sometimes even fifteen-year-olds know when it will last forever. The next box has the letters from the boyfriend I wasn�t supposed to have. He was too old for me. He made the yearning to be out on my own, palpable. It was with him that I started to look beyond the city limits. It was my time with him that made me more faithful. From him, I learned that love can be physical. Butterflies. Then I started keeping just one big box. Which is telling, in a way, of the next few relationships in my life. The next few guys I dated all sort of just �lumped� together in the timeline. There was the athlete with whom I had a love-hate relationship. There were several guy friends who I would go to formal dances with. There was the guy I dated at the end of high school and into college. There were guys after him in college. The box mostly has dried corsages and postcards and birthday cards from friends in it. It is indicative of the four or five years in my life where I was happy with or without a boyfriend and things were just fun. From those guys, I learned that love comes in a lot of different packages and not always from the direction you are looking. I also learned that sometimes, love isn�t enough and people don�t always show or express their love in the way that you need. In the big box, there are also mementos of girlfriends who I am no longer close with. Those are the snippets of my life whereupon I think I have learned the most. They represent those moments where the inscriptions in a yearbook fail to come true. From them, I have learned that �best friends forever� isn�t always the case, no matter how hard you work at it. And yet, sometimes it IS the case. For every girlfriend I have lost, I still have or have gained two. While I look at the birthday card from one relationship passed, I see the one I received only a few months ago from a woman I have been friends with since pre-school. While it is sad that some friendships are better left to the memories of years gone by, it is a marvel that some continue to change with our new grown-up lives and continue, also, to be my greatest champions. From those old friends, I have learned that it isn�t only men who can break your heart. And it isn�t men who can make it whole again. The last box isn�t one that I have to keep in a bottom drawer. It is the box that I have been filling with memories for the past six years. The last box is my most treasured. It is the journey I am still on. It is filled with the ticket stubs and tear-filled notes of hope and sadness and wonder that brought me to motherhood and to being a wife. It is the culmination of all the other boxes, because it is the box that has led to stability and the unwavering. It is the box that I look at when I wonder why I continue to pick up the dirty socks and load and unload the dishwasher. It is the box that houses the dream of my baby girl. It is the box that houses my heart.
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