I just took a bath…in tea. Yes. We had all this crap old stale tea lying around with the new miscellaneous packages of mint and ginger and green tea bags and I decided that I would throw them all in my hot bath and see what happens. I was pleasantly surprised at the comfort a tea bath brings. I would recommend it. It smells good, leaves nothing sticky or leafy (as I thought it would) and refreshes the skin. Now that I have begun to sound like a wacky feminine magazine article, let’s move on.
I also ended up brewing a pot of tea and having a tea party with myself while watching Doctor Who, leaving me feeling quite British. The fact that my Secret Sisterhood 7.0 video was dated “2nd January” and I was listening to The Kooks all day did not help my American patriotism.
I felt all proud of myself because I emailed my English teacher his opinion on writing about Harry Potter academically, and he seemed quite in favor of it. (Yay.) But I also did exaggerate a bit, saying that I had already written my essay when in fact…I have about two sentences of said essay written. Uh oh.
Lately I’ve been thinking about my Peter Pan, clinging to childhood that summer before I turned twelve. It was a turbulent year, probably the most change I’ve undergone in a single year of all the years of my life. There I was, wearing a long white nightgown and an acorn around my neck, leaving the window open for Peter to come in, waiting for my Hogwarts letter, trying to see fairies and to get my little sisters to believe that all this was possible. Meanwhile, my friends spoke in txt talk on AIM of their crushes and the middle-school drama, hip-hop music and mtv. I did not belong then, but I assimilated. I remember the day I resolved to grow-up. I tore the pink flowered sheets off my bed and replaced them with lime green and blue ones. I gave my dolls and kiddie books and old-fashioned jewelry boxes and nightgown to my sister. I declared to have my own room, to paint it lime green. I tried to sit through an episode of Laguna Beach while wearing an Aeropostale tank-top and striped pajama bottoms. I remember sitting in the room and crying for the childhood I lost. I knew it was over, but what I didn’t know then was that it didn’t have to be.
I am wiser now to see that my imagination still lives, in other ways. I could’ve kept those sheets and decorations; they would’ve one day be called vintage chic. I could’ve turned that kiddie style into a vintage, sweet-cream inspired wardrobe. None of that had to go away, and yet I thought it did. It is only now returning to me! I can read those books again, analyze their hidden meanings better than before. And I can read them to A and hope he believes and wished and dreams like I did.
Perhaps what I’m getting at is; whoever you are…that doesn’t need to go away when you grow up. It morphs and changes, but it is almost never reinvented. So please, don’t let it go until the very last second.