Watched Freaky Friday last night with my kids. The one that is as old as me.
Yes, they had color television the year I was born, dear ones.
Do you ever thank God it is physically impossible to relive your past? True, there could be a bit of fun had, sitting in junior high, interacting with teachers who I now know were just poor, confused, fresh out of college schmucks themselves, playacting at being grown up.
But ugh. To really relive it?
For four months now, I have been reading my journal entries from each day twenty years previous to the one I’m now living, and let me tell you it’s a trip. Beyond a trip. I was one unorthodox teen.
Maybe they’re all like that, and I’m the only one who took time to write it down, but I don’t think so. I don’t see my children agonizing over the intricate issues of life and death that consumed my every waking moment.
Seriously, what fifteen year old that you know owns dozens of journals, filled with years of unsolved philosophical questions?
(And why haven’t I solved them yet?)