If you’ve been following along, you’ve probably picked up that Ginny was already a very thoughtful, mature young woman when we held this rite of passage.
That’s why I dug deep into my archives to find my diary with the cartoon of a puppy on the front and a flimsy lock, covered in
I like Tim, I like Scott, I like Todd…
Then I turned to what I confessed to my diary the exact week that I was the age of Ginny the week of her celebration. I photocopied these entries, and that’s what I enclosed in her box.
At the event, I decided to do a dramatic reading for Ginny and assembled friends, directly from Dear Diary. It turned out to be one of the times in my life when I laughed so uncontrollably that I could barely speak. I got all red-faced and squeaky and laughed and snorted as I read aloud (for the first time ever, and with a 25 year lapse!) my own words—hilariously immature, heartbreakingly sweet, unbelievably superficial.
This was my gift to Ginny—a glimpse into a young me. I wanted to give her this for two reasons. One, I know she looks up to me as a wise and deep woman, and I wanted to show her that we all grow into our adult selves over time and with intention—we weren’t always that way. Two, I wanted her to know that in all of her maturity and thoughtfulness and gracefulness, she was way ahead of the curve. To that I was in awe and in celebration.