Back to the Future

When I was about 11, I began a series of letters to myself, to be opened in the future. This came about because of a dispute I'd had with my parents during which I challenged their parenting skills, calling into question their ability to successfully raise another human being and underscoring this with the vow that were I ever to find myself in the position of raising an 11 year old human. I would never, ever, ever be like them.

"Ha," they laughed, proving their own ineptitude. "You think that now, but one day you'll wake up and you'll be us." They winked wearily at each other as I stomped off, seething.

But lying there on my bed, I worried. It somehow made sense. The inevitability of becoming what you didn't want to. After all, before they'd grown old and lost their minds, my parents must've been sane, right? I mean, I'd seen pictures of them at my age, and they looked normal, intelligent, lucid. But it was clear they now couldn't even grasp a rational argument if it stood right in front of them, kicking its feet and yelling. So how to stave off the forgetting?

It was then I decided the only way to do this was to write myself reminders. Sent now and to be opened by my future selves, at crucial moments: "When I'm 16", "When I'm 18", "Christmas when I'm 21", and so on. Looking back, it was a brilliant idea, if defeated by the fact that I couldn't conceive of myself possibly living past 27 (an age after which I really could've used some friendly advice, by the by).

At any rate, I just came across one I'd written to myself at 25. A ripe old age, I'd thought back then. There were inquiries about boyfriends, clothes, the length of my hair and whether I had a dog and a garden full of rabbits, just like I'd planned. But the most important issue came at the bottom of the page, underlined in green marker and in all caps:

Do you remember what it's like to be 11 years old? Answer now! I hope you do. If you don't, you are a total barf bag.

Pretty much says it all, doesn't it?