Overexposed

Surveying the crowd at a concert last Friday night, I was startled to discover that what I thought at first were lighters-held-aloft (80’s-style!) were actually thousands of cell phone screens, all lit up and actively at work videotaping, selfie-ing, and otherwise recording the experience in “real time.”

This is the world we live in.  You aren’t really somewhere until you’ve posted that you’re there on Facebook or Instagram—or at least saved a few quick snaps to your iCloud. And let’s be honest…I did it too. I tried to take a selfie with my pals to mark the exciting occasion of being out on a Friday night and sharing in the spectacle of live music. Our selfie was a bust (it was too dark and we just came out looking like humps of flesh with teeth and eyes), but we got caught up in trying to capture the moment rather than just enjoying it.

These days we record everything—and then there’s the posting. We’re constantly whipping out our phones (with super enhanced photographic capabilities and huge amounts of internal memory) to catch every little thing. Here’s the half-glass of wine I have left in my glass! Here’s the gum I just stepped in on the bottom of my shoe! Here’s some random guy’s mullet that I just had to sneak a photo of while he was gnawing on an ear of corn! Snap, snap, snap!

Back in the old days (like the 90’s) photos and videos used to be about preserving memories, about capturing the very most important and special family moments for posterity, for future generations. Back when photography was first invented, you were lucky to be captured once or maybe twice in your entire life in a photograph. Let’s just hope it was a good hair day.

Which leads me to my current dilemma. I’m way behind in my family photo albums. Photos are piling up everywhere—on my phone, my real camera (yes, I still have one! It’s digital! I’m not using real film or anything), in my email inbox and all over my computer—iPhoto, Shutterfly, SmugMug. The digital footprint of my family is everywhere out there…piling up, unorganized, chronologically incorrect, unfiltered and unedited. This does not even take into account what’s happening beyond my control on Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat and Twitter.

I’m overwhelmed. Every time a kind friend, family member, acquaintance, or teacher passes along an amazing shot of one of my kids doing something (of course) amazing—I break out into a cold sweat. That’s one more photo that I’m not cataloging, organizing, filing properly. Somehow, in the course of quickly catching a photo of my boys on their way to the first day of school, I need to get ahead of this mounting mountain of memories. I am a hyper-organized person, with files set up inside the files in my email inbox. I make binders with dividers and plastic sleeves. I keep lists and I actually draw little check-boxes. But this? These photos? How’s a person supposed to keep up?

And don’t even get me started about the videos. When the children were little, we enthusiastically recorded every “Happy Birthday song,” every soccer goal, every learning-to-master-something moment. Of course, video technology was continuously changing, so I’ve got big tapes, little mini tapes, DVD’s, and some random cartridges, all containing our young family at its best. At some point, I abandoned videotaping completely. I wish I did have video of a few things, like maybe my dad pretending to trip with a birthday cake in his hands, or that time my high school dance team won the National Championship. On the other hand, I’m thrilled that there’s no haunting evidence of that trip I took to Cabo with a bunch of beach volleyball players, or of that time I decided to sing Desperado with the band in a dive bar on the Santa Monica pier. That’s a good miss. For everyone. (And really, I’m still sorry for those of you who had to hear it live.)

But I do care about the photos, the good ones, the shots that captured the moments we want to crawl back into. I used to make elaborate photo albums and baby books, diligently cutting and annotating while my babies were napping and the house was quiet. But then, I started running out of time. The soccer team would send a link with 832 photos from the fall season. Who has time to search through them all for the three of my own child? So, I got behind and then I got panicked into immobility.

I’ve decided that I need to catch up. I’m considering scratching those three years that I missed and just picking back up from today. I’ll create little folders on my desktop with smart labels like “Sports 2016” or “Halloween” or “Mother’s Day”. That way, when the photos arrive, I can just file them in the right spot and at the end of the year, upload everything, all set, into a nice album and press “Order.” That would work, right? I’ll still have to weed through the toothy selfies from the concert the other night, but hey, that’s a moment worth remembering too.

A Polite Appeal To My Fellow Airplane Travellers

Dear Delightful Strangers who are travelling with me today,

I am highly optimistic that if we work together, if we get a few ground rules settled right upfront, we can have a very pleasant mutual journey towards the adventures that await us all. 

Let’s start with the obvious requests one might have when embarking on a trip via commercial airline. We can probably all agree that the seating in coach, where most of us travel, is a tad limiting. So, I have just a few small, easy-to-comply-with requests:

Please bathe.

Please do not clip your fingernails (or toenails!) in the seat next to me.

Please do not recline so thoroughly that your hair is dipping into the coffee cup of the person seated behind you.

Please, when using our shared armrest, keep your elbows tucked in toward your own body, not painfully poking into my arm, rib, or in some misfortunate cases, ear.

Please do not eat tuna salad. Ever.

Please don’t sing under your breath, for the entire flight.

Please don’t hog up the overhead compartment with small items like thin coats, shopping bags, that odd rubber chicken you bought from a street vendor. If you can fit something under your seat, please be considerate and leave enough space for my carry-on, so that the flight attendant doesn’t wrestle it away from me moments before take off and gate-check it, adding 40 minutes at the baggage carousel to my travel day, all because you didn’t want to put the oversized NFL jersey you just bought in the duty-free shop down by your feet.

Please, despite your obvious reluctance to do so, keep your shoes on. Especially if you have ignored request number one.

Please at least pretend to soothe your howling toddler. If you act like you’re trying, her continual shriek won’t be quite as unsettling for the rest of us.

Please do not pinch, slap, wink at, or fondle our flight attendant. She’s the one serving the drinks, and we’re going to need those.

Please stop elbowing me in the neck every time you try to haul yourself out of your seat. There’s a pretty good chance that you decided to get up (once again) the minute I had finally dozed off. 

Please smile occasionally. Especially when the resident howling toddler also finally dozes off.

Gum? Great. I know flying is tough on your ears. Snapping, popping, chomping and bubble-blowing? No, no, no thank you.

Please do not share with me your stories of infected surgical wounds, impacted wisdom teeth, swollen sores, bloody warts, or any other recent medical crises, especially when it’s clear that I’m reading my book.

No, thank you. I would not like a back rub. (We just met!)

Please don’t call your work associate the moment the wheels touch down and expose me to the private details of your recent sales coup. It might be lovely if you waited until we were off the plane to talk loudly of the terms of your contract, because I’m not sure I should know in exact dollars and cents, the amount of your year-end bonus.

Please exit the aircraft in a mature and orderly fashion. We can all agree to wait the extra moment or two for the elderly lady in 17C to gather her knitting. There’s no need to bum-rush the aisle and hurdle over four rows just to beat her out the door.

And please, for the love of God, don’t crowd the baggage carousel. Please stop craning and straining for a glimpse of your particular black rolling bag, identical (almost) to all of the other rolling bags sliding out of the baggage chute, so that you’re ruthlessly blocking the view of all of the other exhausted, eager-to-get-their-rolling bags-and-get-going travellers. If you could leave a polite ring of space around the carousel, almost like a moat, a fellow traveller could spot her bag, then casually step forward to retrieve it without a) ripping her arm out of the socket and/or b) being forced to apologize for severely clipping the kneecaps and shins of those of you standing absurdly squished and smashed right up against the conveyor belt.

I trust that we can all agree to abide by these simple guidelines. It’s mostly common sense. Who knows? After our perfectly harmonious behavior on this trip, we all might start a travel revolution, and every airplane ride could be as magical as this one. Right? Just spread the word.

Perspective

            It was a frog in his throat, Scout had tried to explain, that kept him from saying, “I love you.” A frog that kept him from pouring his heart out to her. He didn’t know what else to call the blockage that sat there, crammed between his uvula and his larynx, shutting off all communication that might satisfy her somehow, or fix their relationship.

He had burnt the toast again, Sally noticed, even though she had squeezed the orange juice and scrambled the eggs. She couldn’t believe that she had ever listened to this flimsy chatter of his, that she had once upon a time believed he was charmingly wounded, like a hunted bear cub crashing blindly through the forest. She had believed he just needed careful tending, some hibernation, some warmth. She knew now that he was simply incapable of behaving, well, human.

“More jam?” she asked, reaching across the table to help herself to the pepper. “Or butter?”

He shook his head, no, and wondered again if she was looking older or if it was just the light. He gulped down his eggs; the Mustang was waiting. He planned to rewire the entire dashboard. He loved to work on his car, loved the heavy feel of solid metal under his hands, the clank clank clank of his wrench against the cement each time he dropped it, the soft buzz of the AM radio station that played oldies while he worked.

He used his thumb to wipe away the last of the ketchup from his plate. What a glorious day, he thought, as he stood up to clear his plate.

It was like he was always rushing, always in a hurry, Sally supposed. Probably antsy to get to his beloved car. She thought she might vomit if he made one more tender, adoring remark about his Mustang.

“Well, I’m going to see my sweet baby in the garage,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, reveling in the day of tinkering ahead of him.

“Enjoy yourself,” Sally said. She thought about the way he cracked his knuckles every morning, awakening her with the sickening sound of bones creaking and rolling all over themselves, the way he dripped water from the sink clear across the entire kitchen floor, the way he left the grease from his car under his fingernails—sometimes for days. She picked up her purse. “I really mean it. Really.”  

What’s all this about? he thought, as he watched her walk out the door. He wanted to call out to her, but that would mean hours of “communication” and no Mustang. Frankly, he was tired of too much talk. He just wanted to work with his hands.

Is It Possible To Be Nostalgic Already For Today?

So I'm starting a blog today. Hooray! And I’m already looking back on the day I decided to do this like it’s a bittersweet memory. One day I’ll be thinking “Remember how I decided I had to start a blog so I could hopefully go back to work?” I'll remember the me I was—the woman with the long ponytail sitting in her pjs, typing away at 5am with a cup of hot coffee just to the right of her elbow. According to my online research (Starting a Blog 101), I need to establish a theme for my blog, and since I'm a writer, it should probably mostly be about writing, somehow.

So, I'm starting with what makes me write.

I am nostalgic about everything. It’s built into me, and I’m not sure how to avoid it or overcome it or ignore it. I can’t even think about last week without getting that twinge of sweet sorrow that accompanies most memories. Maybe it’s the world we live in. Things are moving so quickly and there’s always something new to do, to read, to share, to post. There isn’t really time for the current thing you're looking at to be absorbed because there’s already something else in your inbox. We don’t have much time to reflect, and for someone like me, someone who's always looking back, that’s probably a good thing. Given the opportunity, I could really get to pining for days gone by—the kids were so cute, the mountain air was so clean, my dad was still alive, the summers were long and loose—so being forced to stay in the here and now might be working in my favor. I'm being forced to look today in the face and embrace the present, because frankly? There just isn't much time for looking back.

But, wait! In the present, today, I'm kind of getting old. Oldish? This isn't a concept I'm in love with. At my age, I think I'm supposed to cut my long hair, dress in sensible, high-waisted pants, and stow away the bikinis. But I still feel like my same self. The previous "cool" me that was clubbing in my twenties is still in here. The "overflowing-with-love" me that was getting married and having kids in my thirties is still in here. The "teenage" me that loved walking through the hallways in high school is still in here—as evidenced by the fact that when I dropped off my oldest son for his first day of high school yesterday, I wanted to stay and follow him around and go to all of his classes. I almost just snatched his schedule and made off with it, my mind racing about the ways I could disguise myself to look more like the other teens. High ponytail? Excruciatingly short shorts? Tank top cut so low that the bra is really the "shirt"? I'm realistic. I know that the teenage me is a goner. But honestly, the "child" me who rode her bike with no helmet and no hands and let the wind push her hair off her face like a wild fairy is still in here. She peeks out occasionally, like when I decide I should try skim-boarding with my youngest, or play catch with my middle son, who throws a baseball about 85 mph.

Facing my age is fine. But I don't feel old. I am simply nostalgic for all the "me's" I used to be, and still am. And all of those "me's" make me want to write elegant, poetic fiction with sharp dialogue and lovely descriptions. The "now" me—the one in her forties who is wondering where all the time went and how she will ever finish her novel when there's carpool to be driven, dinner to be cooked, copy to be proofed, friends to comfort—she's the one I have to wrestle down into the chair. She's the one who needs to stay focused and unfettered and fresh. The "now" me needs to feel young and alive and full of potential. But sometimes, I just feel overwhelmed. And that's when I start to feel old. 

Everyone goes through this struggle if we’re lucky enough to make it to our forties or fifties, right? It's furiously cliché. And inevitable. We become middle-aged. And we do our best. We take care of ourselves. We work out. We do whatever we need to do to feel good (aka Botox, Bar Method, drinking too much wine). And then one day, we look in the mirror and we don’t totally recognize who that person is looking back. I accidentally hit FaceTime when I was trying to call a friend, and I was startled by the scary, big-nosed, angry man who suddenly appeared in my phone screen. Oh wait. That was me. (*This last sentence is grammatically incorrect, but it sounds better, so I’m keeping it. I just can’t let it go unmarked that I know it’s wrong!) Anyway, the point is…please don’t ever FaceTime me. It’s terrifying. And I get it...that makes me sound old. Or archaic. 

But we can't rest. Life is always developing out in front of us, like that route you once took when you were driving somewhere and got lost (way back before there were nifty things like Google Maps and GPS) and you had to literally just roll until you came out somewhere that might reorient you. You just had to hit the gas and drive on. So when I start feeling old, I’m going to remember to stay in the fast lane, at full acceleration. I'll try to stop looking back so much, and just keep my eyes on the road that's unfolding ahead. It’s not easy. But I’m going to try.

And when I sit down to write, usually in the early morning when everyone is home but no one else is awake, I can flood the page with all my complicated thoughts and wistful themes about history and family and tradition and legacy. I can let the nostalgia flow, and then plow ahead making the "next" me. If I keep my foot on the gas, she's destined to be someone I'd like to know (but not FaceTime with. Ever.).