Young Love and Old Souls

Hi Cyber Sweeties,

Firstly, thank you for your letters and questions. Thank you for your total honesty and for coming to me with your heart in your hands. I’m amazed by every single one of you. What a courageous group of individuals you are to dare to ask the tough stuff.

Right now, I’m sitting and looking out on my old college campus. It’s been years since I walked these hallowed halls. I see myself in so many of these faces. Some, I look at with fondness. Others? Eh, maybe the grunge 90’s look that is circling back into our closets should stay away. Those crop tops weren’t as flattering as I believed.

My memories invade me from all over. Especially of those and my Mister.

My love life has been carved into this magical, mysterious, Hogwarts-like memory machine. I’m looking right at my initials and Mister’s etched into window pane. Love apparently knows no rules when it comes to vandalism.

I’m looking out over the hill where we went puddle-diving and had our first mouth-watering, not-suitable-for-children kiss. I’m gazing at fondness at the bridge where I threw a library book over the edge and into the creek because I was furious with the ending and, where moments later, Mister met me with a hug, a laugh and a free ice cream cone. The best cure for all my then and future post-novel slumps.

Just beyond in the distance is the chapel and old colonial President’s house where I lived my last year. Where Mister and I squeezed my 10-bedrooms worth of knickknacks, pillows and pink  this and thats into my itty bitty room.

I’m giggling to myself as I pass by the many classrooms we found ourselves in after hours and the theater where we rolled around on the backstage couches (a secret we have kept from even our most intimate friends to this day).

Mister has long since graduated as have I. We have now moved on from this bubble of the world filled with cheap vodka on a Friday night and an endless buffet of eggs and sausage to clear our hung-over, post-coital, dehydrated heads.

We’ve now traded in our chocolate milk for coffee and our toast for only the most well-made of mimosas (the best kind of liquid diet). We’ve moved past bunny love and the joys of skipping class to hang-out on the futon for another hour.

We’ve realized that real love exists outside of throw-together games of soccer on Saturday mornings, 5 a.m. sexual escapades, meeting in the stacks of the library and slumbering till noon with our best friends all entangled in each other’s limbs.

We have learned that real love, does in fact, blind you and surround you and consume you and enrage you and fascinate you and confuse you and strangle you and enrapture you and burn you and overcome you and, most of all, become you, eventually and painfully and beautifully.

We have come to realize that bills are pills that are hard to swallow and the main side effect is “stress on love life.” We have come to find that living together is the best and worst of all worlds. We’ve discovered in each other a nasty, monstrous and cruel being as well as the most humble, generous and compassionate of people.

We have flung ourselves into successes and failures and words that would have better been left unsaid, but were said all the same and have left wounds. We have supported one another in the front row and quietly from a distance.

We have held hands while our hearts broke for each other and ourselves.

We have survived as young lovers and now as old souls (and we can still make out for an absurdly blissful amount of time in the public library stacks of Manhattan).

This week, love bugs, I want to hear about your love stories: old and young. Tell me your tale or ask questions about the obstacle course that is Love and All That Jazz.

Whether you’re passing notes in high school study hall (is this still a thing?) or celebrating your knot-tying of 25 years to the day, love is always a (if not THE) burning question. Ask away Cyber Sweeties! I will share your questions and stories this weekend for all.

Only the best,

Jiminy

Young Love and Old Souls

What to be when you grow up?

Dear Jiminy,

The age old question. As a child of five it’s exploratory, limitless. Fireflies of imagination spark avenues in every direction with possibilities. The world is your oyster, dare I say. Doctor. Superhero. Princess. Astronaut. At five, the entire world seems bursting with options.

What changes? As we grow and experience life our interests change and unknowingly those little fireflies illuminating endless avenues slowly begin to fade out. Unfortunately, all too often as imagination takes a back seat and those once bright pathways now appear dim and frightening one by one that little excited five year old hops on the conveyer belt of life and accepts a mundane truth that poisons the mind into thinking “you can’t be anything you want.

You must make realistic, financially sound choices in your career. That will lead to success.” Some call this maturity. The acceptance that a person can’t actually be ANYTHING they want for a career.

Some feel that this acceptance revolves around place and order of the world. For those not born into circumstance, more and more fireflies igniting options become dim.
The right schools, location, tutors, extracurriculars, and/or connections were not at finger length to make all desired job options a reality.

The question is how? How do we balance the bursting 5 years old within ourselves with the young adult who has accepted a ride on the conveyer belt of life? How do you choose between the selfish wants of happiness and the guarentee of a paycheck and security?

For me, it’s mindnumbingly painful. In one hand I crave the excitement of a life of adventure. On the other hand, I desire the normalcy of the original ‘American Dream.’

The idea of every being in love with a job baffles me; as if the great conveyer belt is a hypnotist of this thing we call maturity.

Thoughts that tend to drowned me..

Cricket

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What to be when you grow up?