This was me in the summer of 1989, when I was working in my first job as a supplies clerk at a local Dallas hospital:
And this is me about ten minutes ago, after a long day of on-campus meetings and persuading the kiddo to go to sleep at a less-insane bedtime:
Except for the egregious mullet (I was growing it out, really I was) and dubious fashion-sense when I was seventeen years old (what on Earth was I thinking?), I find myself returning to familiar habits and interests when I was a teen.
In the summer of 1989, I was working at a place that helped people and put up with my quirky sensibilities. I didn’t have a boyfriend (actually, I never had one up to that point), instead being active as a bona fide scholastic geek with my geek friends at school — that is, when my parents didn’t plan family activities like going to or hosting Filipino parties.
I wrote a lot of bad bad bad unfinished fiction and should’ve-stayed-unfinished poetry. And — thanks to imported British programming on the local PBS television station — I was an absolutely obsessed Anglophile, having devoured (metaphorically) Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock Holmes, the 4th through 7th Doctor Who, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (I’m wearing a “Don’t Panic” button in my mullet-y photo and I still have that button), and pretty much whatever the folks at KERA would throw at me.
Now I find myself — in the early days of 2014, a few months away from my 42nd birthday — working at a place that helps people and puts up with my quirky sensibilities (I really AM a nutty professor). I’m also a single mom with absolutely no — no, none, nein, nyet, NADA — desire to date anytime soon, instead focusing my energy to raising my kid and being there for my parents and siblings.
I write hopefully-above-average fiction, poetry, and non-fiction (like this blog). And — thanks to discovering the awesomeness that is the revitalized Doctor Who (good god, David Tennant, can you be any skinnier? and, Matt Smith, I am fascinated with your odd eyebrows) and Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, that teen Anglophile in me is still so much there that I think I may just go ga-ga over seeing the Cliffs of Dover like I did back in November of 1993, sleep-deprived on a Belgium ferry at 4 o’clock in the morning.
I guess what I’m saying is that I feel young inside, in spite of this middle-aged body.
Is that the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question?
But it’s a pretty good feeling, indeed.