Thirteen

I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about what it was like to be young—maybe twelve to seventeen or so—specifically in the early 2000s, when we had AIM but no social media, Blockbuster but no streaming, and Destiny’s Child before Beyonce went solo. Last week I was home visiting my family and friends I made in junior high. Whenever I come home from those trips, the voice of Younger Carrie gets a little bit louder in my head. Sometimes while I’m writing, she’ll pop up next to me and say things like, “Wuzzup? Sooo, I don’t think that would really happen like that.”

“Um,” I reply saucily, “I beg to differ, young one. I remember what it was like. You don’t have to remind me. Besides, adding memories to a narrative is different. You have to, like…change it.”

“Or maybe your memory is going," she says, coloring in her nails with a Sharpie. “I hear that happens with old age.” Her tone is devastating.

I shift uncomfortably. “I mean, I know you’re trying to hurt my feelings a little bit, but that is actually a thing that has started happening. It’s—I’m a little worried about it.”

“How could you forget what it was like?” she says. “Oh, wait. Probably because you went to college and got married and stopped cutting your own hair, and now you think you’re too good for us.”

“Okay, listen,” I say. “I think that’s a little unfair. I haven’t changed that much. Look—I’m still wearing Converse! And look at this scraggly hair! I haven’t changed at all. I still write notes on my wrist, that Spiderman shirt that you’re wearing is in my closet right now—and I was just listening to Vertical Horizon!”

“Big whoop,” she says. “When was the last time you sat outside, looked up at the sky, and felt how magnificent the universe is? When was the last time you listened to Joni Mitchell while it was raining and wrote in your journal and felt like your soul was deep enough to hold the ocean? When was the last time you ran to the park when you were sad or stayed up all night talking to your friends about your lives and your feelings and your futures? When was your last pool party? Do you even remember how to fold a note? Do you even still make up dances just for funsies?“

“Come on, little C. I can’t—I’m an adult now. I can’t be doing things like that. People would think I was weird.”

“No duh! Oh, my GOD, Carrie. Like, are you even being serious right now? You are a fraud, you—you old lady! Why did you even want to grow up? Like, what is even good about it? All adults do is yell about avocado toast on the Internet and talk about self-care. It sounds boring.”

“Well, I—that is, it’s…TV’s gotten really…well, huh.” I think for a long time. “No standardized testing?”

She looks at me hard. “That’s one thing.”

“And,” I add, “no one tells me when to go to bed. So.”

“So when do you go to bed?”

“I…would prefer not to answer that.”

“I knew it,” she mutters. “Do you even smoke a long pipe?”

“I do not,” I say, “and I can’t remember why that was ever a thing we thought would happen when we got older.”

She laughs. “Me, neither. I guess you just don’t think random ideas are fun anymore. So, have fun being boring. It’s almost your bedtime, isn’t it?” She slinks away in withering disappointment. Probably off to write poetry, which she still thinks she’s pretty good at.

“Whatever, man!” I call after her, but she’s right. I have changed. I mean, I have a little more self-awareness now, which is generally useful, but I’m more self-conscious now than I ever was at thirteen. Back then, I didn’t care what people thought of what I did or said; I did what felt right, even if it was overly sentimental or silly or embarrassing, and I didn’t care if people looked at me weird.

Usually Younger Me isn’t so confrontational. She generally shows up just to whisper old inside jokes in my ear and then giggle hysterically. But it feels good to know she’s looking out for me—that is, whenever she’s not lurking next to a storm drain pipe like a troll or sticking cocktail umbrellas in her hair.

So, maybe not the best role model. But still.