Let’s Be Honest – Adventure Shoes

Adventure Shoes

Imagine me, 10-years-old, sitting on the bed at my grandmother’s house, surrounded by all of her old gadgets, books, and nostalgia from many trips abroad. I’m writing, speculating, pretending I’m on an adventure. Of course, in my imagination I’m twenty or twenty-three, independent but not old. I imagine the storyline of some book or two I’ve been reading. I am free to travel whenever, wherever I want. I am intelligent and can solve mysteries and quarries between people. My adventure begins in the woods, in a setting much like the woods in this music video. I spend most of my time outdoors and reside in a cute little loft or cottage, which is always clean and well-stocked with food. My independence allows me to be free to roam. I see myself alone, capable and the only decision maker. I have no friends but only because I don’t want them. I am in complete control.

Fast forward 15 years. I am here right now, sitting alone in my unkempt house, only half-decorated for Christmas. I am imagining, speculating, pretending. I’m writing an adventure I remember from my snap-shot memory. My childhood comes back to haunt and play with me. I’m captured by memories of sitting by the river, my toes in the cold water, flying down hills on a bike without any regard to my brakes. I flicker back and forth between Christmases and birthday parties, friends and travel with my parents. I thrive on muddy shoes, wet hair, and early morning hours. My hands bear marks of assignments and phone numbers in colored ink. I hope for macaroni and cheese for dinner each night and scoff at broccoli and spinach. My adventure shoes carry me places I now, as an adult, am no longer permitted to go. 
I imagine:
15-years in the future, I am the mother of a brood, owner of a chaotic, but friendly house. I find peace in quiet, sunlight across the hardwood floors, a cup of coffee, and a few moments of unabashed girl-talk with a heart friend. I balance my housework with writing. I write about my glory days, back when I was young and newly married, before I had a house, a mortgage, a large group of children constantly hungry. I write about the time when I was able to invest time in myself, my looks, my hobbies. I had time for the self, or much more than I now have. I write about the long weekend holiday getaways. I’m nostalgic about the couples I see, walking down the street still holding hands (though I’m entirely tempted to run them over with my car). I’m nostalgic when I see people moving into townhouses with their wedding gifts in tow, couples beginning the adventure of setting up house together, learning to fight and to forgive, to hold their tongues and to speak calmly.

Why do we always find the adventure in others’ lives and our memories or future goals when we have moments to experience right now?

My adventure shoes, and my two favorite companions, are waiting for me right now. My end goal? Who knows, but we will adventure together.

I don’t agree with this completely, but i do think we get caught up in the “end goal.”