Hunger Games school semester has begun! And I’ve never been more relieved to go to school in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always liked school (yeah, I was that kid), and I’ve always relished summer break. However, this summer was… how to describe? difficult? a learning experience? glorious moments of fun encompassed by long droughts of sub-par? lonely? I think I’ll stick with a necessary window of growth and maturing, or at least, that’s how I hope to pigeon-hole it in my memoir.
This was my first summer away from home. I know what you’re thinking, “Hils, you’re a little old to be homesick for one summer, don’t you think?” And someone else drones on, “Like cha, didn’t you ever go to camp?” And here’s what I tell you: Don’t call me Hils. You don’t know me! Just kidding. Call me whatever you want, except Frida (all unibrow jokes are a low blow). I am a little old for a lot of things, like how happy riding a bicycle makes me or buying underwear in a package. Get over it. Some things I will probably do forever, and I’m okay with keeping one foot in childhood for the rest of my life. And it’s taken me until now to truly be okay, if not reassured, with the fact that I missed my family this summer. I missed grilled burgers (food first), swimming, hearing about the carnival in my hometown that I never go to (because ferris wheels shouldn’t collapse to fit into a truck), watching The Price Is Right with my brothers, going to the zoo with my sister, helping my nieces ride bikes, singing in the kitchen with my whole family, and watching my Mom and Dad sip coffee on the deck. I missed out on all of that this summer, and I’m glad I’m human enough to be homesick for it. I’m also glad that it puts into perspective the reason I’m here. It must be pretty darn important to miss out on all that.
Oh, and to you “campers.” I went to camp twice, kind of. The first time, I think I was nine. I thought my mom didn’t pack my hairbrush, so I lived with a rat’s nest (worse than a bird’s) for a week, only to find the brush as I was packing up to go home. I was also taller and fatter than the other campers my age. I don’t know how that fits in here. 🙂
The second time, was Hoosier Girls State, in high school. Death. Torture. Tears. Smelly campus. That’s what I think of this experience. All I can say is, never volunteer to be the town crier (in charge of waking people up). Everyone will hate you. Summary: camp isn’t all a found-my-lost-twin-starred-in-a-musical-or-took-down-a-fit-ben-stiller experience, okay?
Don’t have much to say about the second half of this title. There’s a story there, but I’ll save it for another time. Besides, my dedicated
readers reader (hi, Mom!), already knows about it.
Memoir Title Brainstorm:
Everybody Farts, Except Me (And Other Lies)
The Book That No One Read Because ‘Twas Never Written
I’ll Never Be Good Enough For Pinterest
Made It (Having Never Pooped My Pants Past The Age of Thirteen)
Times When I Made Inappropriate Jokes
Times I Couldn’t Stop Laughing (at Funerals) / I Swear I’m Not A Jerk
I Was Here (And Other Beyonce Quotes)
No, Pepsi Is NOT Okay
The Month I Read Lucille Ball’s Wikipedia Page Everyday (and Other Months, Too)
Naming My Dog, And Other Bad Decisions