cross-legged in the dim light

I have the proof time is not linear. I discovered it it two months ago, that weekend on the windy bluff over Lake Michigan. Sleeping in a bunk next to the camp diva and across from a captain I considered an adult, even though she's only two years older than me, diagonal from a duo I'd never guess would have formed the most lasting friendship, huh.

The worst way to wake up, then and now, is metal clinks and the faint pawing for swimsuits. I couldn't believe I was hearing it in my 30s. "What are you doing?" I groggily begged from under my blanket. "Dipping!" the gung-ho crew cheered. I didn't think we were going to do the old thing--wrap in towels and run down the beach steps and jump in. But turns out people were, and I am people.

I have four or five thousand takeaways from the precious days, but if I had to chose one I might say caring is contagious. Like on Friday night when the evening activity was bombardment and yes, I got dressed in yellow, and yes, I laced up my sneakers, but I did not expect to try. Only when you're split into your ride or die teams and on the courts with aggressive sisters from every generation, what choice do you have? Or like when we had to make up intro chants and council fire. I surveyed all the clumps, every face  serious, every brow furrowed. Every person on the dinky talent show stage giving everything. Anyone invited to the Mafia circle buzzed with glee. No one didn't try.

Re; generations, if I were afforded two takeaways I might say generations of women are just important. They just are. I need to see women older than me having fun. I need to hear women younger than me. I need to be who I am. All of us need each other, by the way.

What else? Canoeing through the silver tube for the last time ever. It makes me want to cry if I think about it too much, so I can't. I forgot my glasses before the talent show. I did as a teen too. My same legs ran from the top of the hill down the wood chip grove to grab them. Singing on the bus. Singing on the deck. Looking out over the long road from the meadow, after we zip lined but before we hid under the evergreens.

Fine! If I were afforded three takeaways, I might also add nothing last forever besides everything you've ever thought about. ____ gives me a petoskey stone, my first, and says her truth. Like the first star did at midnight. Like the most annoying girl did too, what, twenty years ago? And I see you still, when I look out to the manitous from the perch. Like a projector plays you walking by. And if no one else comes to the show,  I'll be an audience of one, until the erosion is too quick to contain and every cabin sinks into the water.

Her Little Diane Keaton Hat

 There was an 80something woman behind me at this coffee shop. She was drinking an orange juice and wearing a pale blue button-up, circular glasses, and a Diane Keaton hat. I adored the whole image. I love seeing women enjoying themselves alone. "I won't bother her, but when she gets up to leave, I will pay her a compliment," I thought. I started into my B_rbie revisions and got tunnel vision, like I so often do. Just popped my head up for air, and the woman is gone. I'm sending her the message telepathically. I wish I hasn't missed my chance.

Last month I was here writing, morning after the Taylor Swift concert. I was wearing my t-shirt, a proud ambassador for the greatest cultural event of my lifetime. A man, 70s, approached me asking if I went to the concert. I said I did, and he decided to spend several minutes telling me she bought a house in his area on the east coast. Of course I know this. I would wager there's not a single thing that man could say about Taylor Swift I didn't already know. And I felt myself getting angry. Why did he assume he could teach me when I was the one in the literal t-shirt of our subject? He made a jab at her dating history, and I had to ask myself if it was worth spending five more minutes of my life educating a stranger who did not respect me. (Decided, no.) He then wanted to talk about Lizzo's assault allegations, which also bothered me. I said the situation seemed very complicated. He scoffed that she is an abuser. And maybe she is. But my generation is far more comfortable with complexity, and sometimes that's wrongfully considered as ignorance. In actuality, I care so so much. So much more than that man. I care so deeply that these issues rattle me to my core. I spend lots of time sussing through the difficult webs, questioning the narratives and where they're from and who would want them projected and when and why.

I try to see it differently in hindsight. At least that man knows who Lizzo is. Maybe that's what it was all about. Him presenting to me, "I know your world too!"

Last night I had a brand new experience. I went to a friend's comedy show expecting it to be a semi-sparse attendance of pals. But when Puhg and I got to the lobby, we found ourselves in a huge crowd of buzzing 20somethings. Fans, it turns out, of my contemporaries. I was happy to see it and also have never felt more ancient. I'm jealous of how the world treats Gen Z. I felt so hated for my entire post-college decade. The butt of endless jokes and poor and desperately smiling through it all. Don't complain or you'll be made fun of, you'll seem like "bad energy," you may even be let go--you are expendable beyond your wildest dreams. I still feel that way. Millennials are losers with too much debt and too few houses. Be careful!