Can’t Buy Me Love

13 Aug


As I write this post, I’m sitting in my high school room listening to “Can’t Buy Me Love” on a forgotten record player.

It’s strange being back home and in this room.  In some ways it feels like I never left.  Like I’m forever 16 wearing floppy Winnie the Pooh slippers and declaring, “No one understands me!”

In other ways, this room feels more like a museum than a current living space.  A place where all the cast-offs of my old selves remain, scattered and unorganized and asking me if I’m really, 100% sure that they don’t deserve a place in my future.

“I don’t know,” I answer.  I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I don’t know.

There’s the Polaroid of a boy I can’t quite seem to throw out.  The snapshot of my Snow White hair. The stuffed animal won by the boy I can’t quite seem to throw out.

There’s the white swimsuit that should have been recognized as a mistake.  The purple snuggie.   The Scarlett O’Hara Barbies that I will never, ever get rid of, but may never, ever know what to do with.

And then there’s the silly, hip, wonderful, abandoned record player, requested for Christmas one year when I was sure I could be “that person.”

It’s funny.  I don’t even know who “that person” is anymore.

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  1. The Mirror That Means Home - Jillian Lorraine - February 25, 2014

    […] perpetually 17 when I’m at home.  It’s the sleigh bed and the museum to my past selves.  It’s the people who knew me at 17.  It’s the fact that I’m always a bit 17 and maybe […]

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