I’ve been doing quite a lot of self-work currently, and, as I attempt to heal my wounded interior baby, I take into consideration that candy little woman. There is a lot I want I may inform her.
If I had the chance to satisfy my youthful self, I’d inform her:
“You are perfect just the way you are.”
And, “You are worthy, not because of how you look or what you accomplish, but because you’re you.”
Also, “One day, you’ll get NOFX stuck in your head at least once a week, which is so weird because you didn’t even listen to them that much.”
I suppose then she would most likely ask how I bought there and demand some kind of identification to show that I truly was her from the long run and actually did time-travel there, and was not just a few creep. You by no means know—there are some sick individuals on the market. Better to be protected than sorry.
After we bought all that settled, I think about she would most likely have some follow-up questions.
She’d ask, “So . . . how do things turn out for me?”
I’d inform her that each one her wildest desires come true—that she grows as much as be an actor and an artist and a comic and a author, she has good pals, she is nice at reducing hair, yada yada.
Then she’d say, “Oh, cool. So I’m happy then, right?”
“*Well,” I’d say, scrunching up my face, “it’s kind of hard to explain—like, yes, but also it’s, like, once you accomplish one thing, you immediately start looking at the next goal, or comparing yourself to your peers. But then sometimes you’re, like, ‘Wait a second, I don’t even want that for myself.’ And the thing is, you don’t want to be famous, but you of course want people to think of you when they’re hiring for things, so you’re, like, ‘Ugh, I guess I’ll post on social media more.’ ”
“Social . . . media?” she’d reply.
“Oh, my God, sorry,” I’d say. “I forgot, you’re in the two-thousands or whatever. Um, so there’s, like, Internet on cell phones—everyone has cell phones now. And there’s an app, well, it’s kind of like a Web site, called Instagram, and you post pictures and comment on other people’s pictures, and you want to look hot but not so hot that you’re trying—unless that’s your thing! In which case it works, but I don’t really feel like that’s my brand and—”
“Insta . . . gram?” she’d sound out.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry. So, Instagram is owned by Facebook—” And I’d see on her face that she’s puzzled, and I’d kind of wave my hand and say, “Uh, Facebook . . . it’s, uh . . . it’s, like, this Web site that used to be for chatting, but now it’s, like, destroyed the world, and the guy who made it has to testify in front of Congress all the time. It’s crazy—OH, MY GOD! Sidebar: We’re going to Mars! Anyway, what I’m getting at is that you do have a really fun life, but it’s human nature to want more sometimes.”
“Totally,” she’d say. “I get that.”
Then she’d stand as much as stroll me to the door, giving me some type of line about how she’d actually love to speak extra however has to get again to homework.
“Oh!” I’d say, remembering. “Being curvy is totally socially embraced now. Being skinny is out.”
“That’s great!” she’d say.
“Yeah, but you’re skinny,” I’d add. She’d cease smiling.
“Wait,” she’d say. I’d flip. “Do I get really into NOFX in college or something?”
“No!” I’d say. “That’s why it’s so weird!”
Then I’d lastly get going, understanding that I’d given her all of the instruments she’d have to blossom into a powerful girl who is aware of and loves herself.
