"At age 20, we worry about what others think of us. At 40, we don't care what they think of us. At 60, we discover they haven't been thinking of us at all."
-- Ann Landers
Ah, yes, how our vision changes as we age. I'm not talking about our eyesight, though I have a notion on how that changes over the years as I search for my eyeglasses and often find them atop my head.
But while our eyesight may fade, I'd like to think our mind's eye -- our ability to conceptualize our world and ourselves -- gets sharper with time.
I have a tendency to get a tad pensive each year as I remove my ornaments from their boxes and hunt for the perfect branch on which to nestle them within my freshly cut Christmas tree. Each decoration carries a memory, a direct link to a person, experience or time in my life.
But even my Christmas decorations have taken a huge hit in the process of downsizing.
Not only is there not enough storage in my loft for 12 boxes of Christmas paraphernalia, there isn't enough room to display 12 boxes of Christmas paraphernalia come December. And who needs 12 boxes of Christmas stuff?
(We'll now take a brief intermission while you and/or your significant other ponder the number of boxes currently stored in your home, attic, garage or storage unit and discuss the implications of that last sentence, which undoubtedly caused at least one head to spin at the thought of having only 12 boxes of Christmas decor, much less the idea of whittling that number down to a single digit by actually getting rid of items and not by simply getting larger boxes. Be nice. No name calling. We'll wait.)
I went through each box and sold or donated the majority of holiday items I'd collected over the years, leaving four boxes of the most treasured decorations. Not valuable, per se, but priceless to me.
And for the first time in years, I had help adorning the tree from someone other than Baxter and Floyd (whose "help" consists of being hind-end-up in every box, eating tinsel and drinking the tree water).
As Southern Gent and I strung lights on the tree, I thought back on the many things that happened in the year since I last saw those strands.
I wondered, knowing what I know now, if I could write a note that would travel back in time for me to receive while I was putting up my tree last year, what would I tell myself?
Dear Me,
You're tired of changes, I know, but a few more are coming your way. Some will be tough; some will be good. All are necessary.
Cherish the outing you take with Mom in February. Order hot fudge sundaes.
No, there are no physiological reasons to explain what Mom does in her last 15 seconds. If that doesn't convert the unbelievers in the room, nothing will.
It's okay to cry in the cereal aisle. It's okay to feel anger, relief and sadness, but not guilt. You're a good caretaker. You're a good daughter.
The Doc is not The One. You already know this. Cut bait.
Stay away from Ukraine, West Africa and Ferguson, Mo.
Yes, Ferguson, Mo. Just trust me. You don't have to know why.
It gets better. Stay the course.
Don't put the chocolate in your suitcase.
Wear the red one.
You've never put too much stock in what others think of you, and you certainly don't at age 40, but try to lighten up on yourself. You're your own harshest critic.
Use cash at Target and Home Depot.
Read the instructions that come with the worms. Just trust me. You don't have to know why.
Next year, you won't be trimming the tree alone as you've done for ages. You'll have a partner. A real partner. And he's right under your nose.
Yes, you know him.
Just trust me. You don't have to know who.
Your year will begin like an after-school special, but end like a Hallmark miniseries. And you'll be the better for it.
Sincerely,
A Slightly Wiser You
I took the strand of lights Southern Gent held out from the other side of the tree. Perhaps it's best we can't deliver such letters. Nobody gets to live life backward, said Ms. Landers. We have to look forward.
May we all have much to look forward to this Christmas and in the coming year.
Commentary on 12/18/2014