Can't You Just Hear the Bee Gees?

Yesterday was spring cleaning day and I came across a cache of old photos. As though you couldn't tell from the earlier posts, I am somewhere on the continuum between nostalgic and horrified.

This is by far my favorite picture from my childhood.

This is me at my most glamourous, without even trying. I am messing around on stage after my brother's Noah's Ark play at school. It's 1981, and by the looks of my polyester vest, I am not willing to admit that disco is in fact dead.

I know that it is egotistical for me to say this, but I am a cute little kid. I'm five and I'm lanky and blonde. The eight-ounce eyeglasses won't come for another two years, and I am thrilled that I am the center of attention. Today, I am twenty plus years older and wiser, but I like to picture this person as my vibrant inner child.

Going through these photos is a solemn reminder that all history is imperfect.

I am also reminded of the antithesis to this picture. There are hundreds more photos that help me paint a much more vivid look at my past, but they will remain hidden in shoe boxes and stored in electronic memory. I may trot out one here and there to provide a more complete picture of my mad existence.

There were times that my childhood wasn't so fabulous, the depression, the rage, all quietly suppressed for years, because I was afraid to be who I was and who I am.

As more Kodak and polaroids come to light, I have come to the realization that I can't change the past. I can only hope to do better in the future. So I raise a glass to my inner child. You make me feel like dancin'.