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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
If you'd asked me when I was ten years old, what or where I'd be at by age forty, I'd probably have told you some pie in the sky dream, like, I'd be a big time fashion designer with a gorgeous model of a husband and three kids, and and we'd all wear white clothes and chase each other through the white sheets air drying in the sunshine at our country home -- or something that looks like domestic bliss in a 1980's laundry detergent commercial.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
At age eighteen, some forward-thinking adult made us High School Seniors commit some words to paper. It was loosely along the lines of, Where do you see yourself at age 30? But we were told that we could write whatever we wanted, because only we would see what was written, the caveat being, we'd see it when we were thirty years old.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
In 2010, an email went out, reminding the class of '98 of this endeavor, and would we kindly send our current mailing addresses? Our documents had been sealed and stored for twelve years, and now they needed to be mailed to us.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
I held the crisp envelope in my hands, noting the strangely familiar penmanship on the return address, my old home, written in my hurried, all caps (except for a few letters) print. By Jove. I couldn't even remember what I'd written, but I fully expected this time capsule to flood me with wunderkind wisdom and hammer me with blast from the past memories.
Instead, I got this:
There once was a girl from Nantucket.
Who got a stupid homework assignment, so she said fuck it.
She did what school said,
and after twelve years wasn't dead,
Then her old, saggy ass got mailed a poem that sucked it.(By the way. Your thirty now and therefore can't be trusted. Ha HA)
My initial thoughts were thus: Come here you eighteen year old cockadoodie brat.
Your grammar is poor and Charlton Heston is not a counter cultural icon. You wasted too much time on TV, computer games, and sleeping in until 1pm. You were emotionally gorked. You shirked responsibility. You had talent and potential, but contributed the very minimum because you had zero stamina for hard, uncomfortable, tedious work. As a result, you have very little to show for anything. Eat my whole ass.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
Thinking of it now, I kind of wish I'd kept this letter from myself. But at the time I immediately crumpled it up and tossed it. I have enough mischief and juvenilia betwixt the diary covers of my misspent youth.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
sooooo. (buttons on your underwear)
As I wind down the eleven days I have left in my thirties, I find myself occupied with thoughts about letters written for the future.The kind that are so targeted and poignant in the moment they're read, that the music swells and all readers are reduced to tears because they're filled with love and truth bombs....and a flash of that shining verisimilitude of the beauty, agony, and brevity of life.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
I'd hoped to be the kind of parent that would write one of those read-upon-my-death, time traveling sock-you-in-the-gut-with-love letters. Where I make some anecdotal observances about you as a toddler and as an adult, express my hopes and dreams for your future and the kind of person you'll be, and finally bequeath you with the task of returning an ancient, mystical necklace to its rightful owner. (Or something that would send you on a journey fraught with adventure and intrigue and romance.) I have no idea where this came from. But just after my father died when I was sixteen (going on seventeen) it was my heart's most ardent wish that a letter from him would fall out of leather bound book I pulled off a shelf, or would be delivered to me by a lawyer on a designated birthday like a Wes Anderson film. I would be enveloped in parental love and machinations from beyond the grave - perhaps exposing that naive and fatalistic wish that God was an actual heavenly father and I wasn't the master of my own destiny. It seems like it would be so much easier. Ahhh, but I never got any letters. Dammit, those unrequited loves and wishes have inspired literature for millennia...the novel I'm writing (editing) is no different, as it is filled with those letters I never got, and so it will also have to be that love letter to the children I never had. But as to me still pining for those letters I never received, well...As I lean from the threshold of thirty-nine into the heathery glen of forty, wisdom and experience are showing me that I am responsible for obtaining what I want. That's on me and no one else.
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
Without further adieu, here's a love letter to myself for when I turn fifty.
There once was a woman in Pittsburgh,
who drank like she lived in a vineyard,
she loved with all her might,
and her looks, they put up a good fight,
but it was her writing for which she would be remembered.
My Dearest Meryl Aja,
You've grown so much since you were a bold and adventurous toddler, and a frightened and anxious teenager. Where you used to be afraid of showing any sign of weakness, you've pushed past that.While it's true, that a few have taken advantage when you showed a vulnerable side, you've found they were an exception to the rule.You've found more comfort and friendships because of your openness than anything else, so you should continue with it. You're starting to learn about boundaries. Keep leaning into that.
You're getting antsy about looking as old as you feel. Right now you feel like you're fifteen years old in the head -- Just some dumb kid that finally figured out what she wants in life. Is that still true? It's pretty difficult looking like you're fifteen right now, if not impossible. You don't really want to look fifteen, you just want it to stop. Though, it won't. It's possible you're still fighting the good fight in maintaining a youthful appearance, you might have taken some drastic measures, or you may be aging more gracefully than a French woman, because you don't smoke, Great Job on that by the way! Whatever you do, always do it for you, and Always Always Always do your research.
I'm so happy you and writing found each other. You came to it with late, but boy have you learned by doing. I don't think you've stuck with anything as long as this, so it really must keep your interest and be special. Please, never tire of it, and keep doing it. It gives so much meaning to your life because you don't process emotions like normal people. When you write, you get so much more clarity for yourself, and then for your loved ones. You're a ways off from publishing at the moment, but when it's time to look for a publisher, don't let rejection derail you from doing something that makes you whole. Keep doing it. Writing is your salvation.
I'm so ecstatic that you found true love in Joshua. The push and pull of your relationship constantly takes your breath away, keeps things spicy (and you on your toes), floods your being with so much joy and gratitude that you sometimes find yourself weeping happy tears in the shower.You inspire each other aesthetically and to be better people. It is a union you didn't think possible, but you have it. You have no idea how many people walk around looking for what your father in law called "that special kind of sauce" and never find it. But you did. Never stop showing your love and appreciation to that gorgeous man of yours.
And Honey, if there's one sentence I want you to walk away with from all this, it's this:
I believe in you.
What I wore:
Sunnies: fake wayfarers, Amazon here.
Trench: Old, Yohji Yamamoto, worn previously here.
Shirt: from Thred-up.
Denim skirt: Levi's, sourced from Thred-up.
Tights: Amazon here.
Shoes: Nike Vandalized LX, try here.
Quilted patent leather bag: Christian Dior
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| photo: Joshua Franzos |
Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,
