Boys, boys, boys

I found my diary from 1994-95 over the holiday season. It contains an overly documented account of the minutia of my life between the ages of 19-20. I now know what I was doing during those tenders years: boys, boys, boys. I was doing boys. Not so much doing them as thinking about, obsessing over, dreaming about, seeking out, avoiding, spending way too much energy on, and yes, occasionally doing: boys. In fact, were it not for boys, running, my close circle of friends, my parents divorce and organic chemistry, the pages of that book could still be harvested for grocery lists. Note to self: burn diary in event of untimely death to avoid posthumous humiliation.

Despite the poor writing (not much has changed there) and the cringe-making boy angst, I was happy to find and read the diary which I have to confess I had forgotten ever having written. It was interesting to see occasional glimpses of my adult personality peeking out from the fluff.  There were also some true treasures in there: in-detail account of a work-out I did with an Olympian and former Canadian record holder and the advice she gave me on running competitively, some long forgotten memories of a friend's mother who died of cancer a few years later, a hilarious account of dating a frat boy (first and only frat boy I was mixed up with, and no I didn't intend it to be hilarious when I wrote it), a description of my first ever 5 km road race.

And as is usually the case with such discoveries, it was the stuff between the lines that was the most interesting. For example, there is near constant commentary on the words and actions of a rotating cast of boys and harsh judgements cast upon them... all the while the diary documents my actions and words which clearly show me to be almost identical in character to this cast of boys and yet... completely OBLIVIOUS to this fact! Did that make sense? What I mean to say is that I whine endlessly about the jerkiness of 19 year old boys but the diary clearly shows that I am a jerky 19 year old girl but unaware of the irony or hypocrisy. Which I guess goes to show we were all just guilty of being 19 years old.

But it was a good find. I hope that when Thing 1 and Thing 2 inevitably take longer than one would hope to work the silliness and boy (or girl) craziness out of their systems, that I will be patient and understanding. I am glad I found these memories of angst, good friendships, drama and of simpler times. I am gladder still that 19 year old Piccola Pine Cone did not have the chance to make permanent decisions about my life!