Now, make that two boxes filled with over two decades' worth of memories and we'll see what that will do to that aforesaid fool.
That sentimental old fool in question by the way is moi.
A week's worth of deep cleaning unearthed two cute tin boxes that contain every imaginable stuff that was meaningful to a younger Miss Lotts. Postcards from friends, postcards sent to myself, letters from family and friends, some cheesy and swoon/cringe-worthy missives (ahem); notes surreptitiously passed during class that predate texting (yeah I'm that old), and even bits of trash that I do not remember why I kept them in the first place.
The older of the two boxes also contains the beginning of my journalling days: my little blue notebooks. I started buying them around my sophomore year of college after my best friend D got me into writing down my random thoughts. I was that kid who grew up thinking that writing in diaries was super corny because I thought every entry should start with a "Dear Diary". And "Dear Diary" just sounds too cheesy and corny to my young ears at the time.
Of course D set me straight on that grave misconception and thus started me out with passing notes written on yellow pad paper about anything that comes to mind. Notes that included lyrics to a commercial jingle and whatnot from what I can remember. It was when D transferred to another university that finally I bought my first little blue notebook, for who will I pass a note to when she's so far away already, no?
Like Pandora, I was curious to see what those tin boxes contain. While I know what's literally inside them, I have no idea how opening them will affect me this time. A tug of the lid and a quick riffle through the contents was enough to bombard me with memories of a little more than half my lifetime. All in just under a minute.
Now, what if I read just one thing? Say, a card. Well, I just about died reading the super short note inside it. So many what-ifs danced in my head. Consider that box closed for life.
Unlike Pandora, however, I have plenty of opportunities to change my mind about opening the boxes. So I reopened that particular box tonight and pulled out one of the cringey notebooks to read. Anyone who heard me howling with derisive laughter and comforting and cursing my nineteen-year-old self at the same time would think I have finally lost my mind. I would think so too.
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