As is the way with children, if you were well liked you could count on being “rescued”, but if not you would spend most of recess mired in inertia.

It’s different when you get older, yet similarities remain. In some ways, I am still frozen, perceptively confined to the body of my eleven year old self. The one with the pubescent attitude problem, whose favorite food was french fries, and thought John Hughes was the greatest director/screenwriter whoever lived.

All of those things have changed, yet it seems to matter little as I am still frozen in time in the minds of adults who knew me then, which is to say people who barely know me now. Regardless of what I read, how my taste changes or even how I perfunctorily attempt to set aside their misconceptions, they aren’t terribly interested in changes, because changes require rewiring memory, which is more difficult than regurgitating the past.

Consequently, I am lazy of exerting myself in these relationships. I grow less interested in listening, making me as lacking in communication as those I complain about. Because, the interest of a single party does not a relationship create.

This is just one of the ways life changes. I am frozen in time as a shadow of my former self. In some ways it is easier, allowing people their misconceptions. WIth their misguided impressions you know where you stand, whereas with the current truth of yourself, there is always hidden judgement, making approval simultaneously not matter, and be absolutely everything.

There comes a place in “frozen” relationships when it becomes impossible to re-program the other person’s idea of who you are, saddling you with a tremendous amount of frustration, or resignation, neither of which is desirable.

Before you become over-excited by my humble declaration of improper behavior, I should clarify, that I am not apologizing for the time I laughed when my cousin-partner-in-crime called you a pretentious old fart to your face. He was correct, although it was a rebellious prepubescent flash in the pan observation. I am also not sorry I discontinued attending church services, failed to meet a man in church, or failed to marry in a church. If god exists and is omnipotent, he understands and doesn’t see the necessity in my clearing things with you.

As I was saying in paragraph one, the apology.

It would seem I committed an inexcusable breach of etiquette between the ages of three and four. You know the incident I am referring to; you’ve reminded me of it yearly since I was sixteen. Yes, that’s the one. That time I discovered the bottle of Oil of Olay on your make-up tray and asked if it was yours. After you acknowledged it, I asked if that was the cream designed to make you look younger, and you said it was. Then I told you not to waste any more money, it wasn’t working.

What can I say? I am the youngest of three, an unfortunate product of television as babysitter, pop-culture and insecurity based mass marketing. If society’s influence over impressionable children disturbs you, you know, write a letter to someone, or something.

I guess you’re probably wondering, why the sudden pang of guilt on my part? Well, I’m not dying , if that’s what you are thinking, well at least no faster than I should be… The thing is, since we moved to an area with lower humidity, for the first time in my life, I am suffering from dry skin. I mean, really WTF? So for the first time in my entire life, I am shopping for a fucking moisturizer. Do you know what the bottle says? Age defying. Age defying, my ass. I don’t look younger, I look like target with vanity issues and disposable income. Maybe, I do have some of your genes….

With love and christian kindness,

jaded