Someday we’ll know why Samson loved Delilah. Someday we’ll know why Delilah was such a bitch about it.
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Sometimes I really hate how important it is to look good.
The expensive clothes. The bags. The shoes. The accessories. The pretty dresses. The manicures and pedicures. The make up. The hair products. The diets.
Most days, I wish I could just get up, shower, put my pajamas back on, and go to school. Not have to iron my hair or apply make up or put on contacts instead of just wearing my glasses or take the time to think of what to wear and change my mind at least thrice before I finally make up my mind.
The happiest moments of my life would’ve been much happier if I was wearing comfier clothes.
My mother was wrong. Some wounds even time can’t heal.
This is one of those wounds. You’re one of those wounds. And you won’t even leave a scar because that’s not what you are. What you are is an eternally deep, fresh, bleeding, throbbing wound.
And the sad part? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I still remember that day. It was a Monday and it was raining hard. I was in the first grade, maybe six or seven years old. My mom woke me and my brother up at 6:30 in the morning, ate breakfast with us, told us to hurry up, shower, and change into our school uniforms. I was standing on our porch staring at the rain when I heard my dad call me into their room.
“It’s bad weather. Why don’t you guys take the day off from school and let’s play in the rain instead?”
You can imagine how exciting this was for me and my brother.
I hurriedly went into my room, changed into a pink floral bathing suit, and put on some house clothes over it. My dad and brother were waiting for me in the living room.
Of course, this is all a hazy memory. After all, it’s been fourteen years. Maybe we were outside for hours. Maybe we were outside for ten minutes. I was so little, looking back, it seems like the raindrops were as large as peanut m&m’s. But what I distinctly remember was me, my dad, and my brother in our garden playing in the rain. There was mud and wet grass between my toes when I looked up, stuck my tongue out to taste the rain, and yelled, “Dad! This is the best day of my life!”
I probably didn’t mean it. Surely, there were far more exciting events in my life than playing in the rain. But looking back, I think it truly was and still is the best day of my life.
Six years old. I didn’t have to worry about school or graduation or which major I should pursue. I didn’t think about boys or relationships or rejection. I didn’t have problems about my girl friends talking behind my back. I didn’t care if I looked pretty or not or if my make up was right or if I broke a nail.
Looking back on this, the load of my everyday life seems to lighten. I am no longer the lost and trouble 20-year-old. I know somewhere inside me is the memory of the happily rained-on little girl between the dark, heavy clouds and the muddy, wet grass. I know somewhere inside me, I’m still her.
