A Pronoun Crisis

Yesterday, I was glancing through an old photo album, when I casually noticed a photograph of a young woman with dark hair and eyes. I think she was laughing. As I prepared to turn the page, a frivolous thought flitted across my mind.

Oh, she's pretty!

And then a realization slammed into my brain. It wasn't she; it was ME! Had I actually just referred to myself in the third person? For even a hair's breadth of a second, did I not realize I was staring at myself? On a scale of one to ten, how sad was that?

Embarrassed, a bit prorogued, I turned back the page. Took a second look at that young woman. And realized that—although it was most definitely ME—I was no longer that particular version of myself. SHE was in her early twenties, confident and arrogant in the way only that age can be. She had just met the man she would marry, but hadn't yet considered such a binding vow. At that moment, she had no children, no responsibilities, no worries. She barely weighed over a hundred pounds, had a flat stomach, and never worried about double chins or gray hairs. She wore her beauty, her intelligence, her carefree confidence on her sleeve. She dared anyone to question her or doubt her.

Yes, I had been that woman. I recognized her. I even recalled her envious qualities and familiar quirks fondly. But now? I wasn't her anymore. SHE had transformed into ME.

Smiling, I ran a finger over that glossy image of myself, willing away the ten years or so that stood between us, trying to reconnect. It took a moment, but memories simmered to the surface and popped like candy-coated bubbles.

She was a serious student, but didn't take herself too seriously.

She loved to laugh about everything.

She wallowed in late mornings, wrapping each unknown day around her like a warm blanket of anticipation.

She was somewhat self-centered and selfish, but not so much that it detracted from her overall friendliness. (At least I hope so!)

She liked having a plan, but could spontaneously drop everything on a whim.

Another memory bubble simmered, prepared to pop, but my thoughts were interrupted by sticky fingers and high-pitched shrieks. Laughing, I dropped the photo album to the floor and scooped up my giggling children. Just like that, I was ME again. And only then did I feel an unexpected emotion for that other young woman. (And no, surprisingly, it wasn't jealousy!) She was pretty great, but I almost felt.....sorry for her?

She had yet to learn what it meant to meld her life with another's, to sacrifice and struggle. She had yet to experience the miracle of a tiny human residing in her body, the primordial surge of strength required to push that being into life, the roller-coaster of love that was only just beginning. She had yet to learn what it meant to balance personal, professional, and familial responsibilities. She was poised upon the starting gates of adulthood, arming herself for the ride ahead, but hadn't actually entered the true thralls of life yet. She honestly had it quite good back then—few difficulties, stresses, or crises—but how could she truly appreciate life's many facets with so little actual experience?

As I scurried off to play with my children, the photo album nearly forgotten, I had one more fleeting thought cross my mind.

Yes, SHE was pretty, but ME? I am beautiful. That's what ten full years of meaningful life will do for you. And for that I am thankful. Such a transformation is surely worth the sacrifice of a pronoun!