My Sophomore Yearbook, Waffles, Rum, and Syrup, or Why I Won't Edit My Life

A little over a week ago, I stopped at King Soopers on my way home. I was on a mission for Free Friday Izze Sparkling Water. (It was a thing). My friend Sandra was there. She gave me her free Izze, because she Izze awesome (mmhmm). Izze count, 2.

Now, here's where it gets weird. She also handed me my yearbook from sophomore year of High School. We don't know why she had it. We don't know how long she's had it. When I opened it, though, I knew I had something wonderful, because, there's this:

I don't know why I was dubbed "Waffle." I don't even remember Chad Whitefield. Who was he to me? We found his photo. He looks familiar, but we can't say exactly why. Isn't that strange? It's strange how certain memories get completely lost in time. It's strange that it would say waffle, because I love waffles now, but, I didn't love waffles then. I mean, I liked them, but the waffle love came later. Hey Chad Whitefield are you a time traveler? How did you know? Do you know about that Ed episode with the waffles too? Hey, Chad Whitefield if you ever read this, maybe you can explain yourself. 

Speaking of foodstuff:

Cheese Whiz? Huh.

That evening, I planned to go home, eat my eggs, pop open one of the aforementioned Izze drinks, and start writing something (anything), but once I cracked open this yearbook, I just had to read it through to the end. Okay, I mean, I didn't take in every word or examine all the photos, but I read everything everyone wrote to me. There was actually a scavenger hunt with notes like this:

It was completely fascinating, but I won't tell you how the hunt ends. I'm not even sure the ending justified the search, and if we're being honest, I actually saw the ending on accident before I was supposed to, which made the whole experience even more...

Perfect!

This yearbook felt like a grand finale to a strange quest through my past. I'm not sure what I was looking for there, but I spent a decent amount of time reading old journal entries -- scratching my head at, and nodding along with a former self. Who was this strange waffle lover, and how did she end up here, following a trail of Herzog, rats, moons, and monkey bars?

I found responses to Facebook games like the one below from April of 2009. Apparently, the goal was to complete the sentence prompts, and pass it on.

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1. I am...about to watch "Chuck." :)
2. I wish...for that part-time library gig! 15 hours extra a week is a small price to pay for another paycheck!
3. I can't...sit still.
4. I know...where I belong.
5. I sense...a lucky streak.
6. I hate...holes in otherwise decent jeans.
7. I love...too much.
8. I feel...like waffles.
9. I wonder...why I always want a drink when I'm on call and can't have one?
10. I think...all the flippin' time.
11. I want...a magic wand and a never-ending bottle of syrup.
12. I hope...it's not too late.
13. I should...plug in my computer, the battery's low and I have A LOT of googling to do.
14. I have...a mystery to solve.
15. I see...Bella crawling into her over-sized giftbag to hide.

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2009 Jamey was a riot (or so I've heard), and 2009 Jamey was clearly obsessed with waffles. A never-ending bottle of syrup? That's really what I wanted more than anything in the world? I hope it's not too late to change that one.

Skip ahead.

In 2011, the world crashed down temporarily. To be honest, I'm not sure why it crashed down for the person it crashed down for, but it did. I can't change the story. It's what happened. The journal entries from this era went something like this: 

"Found the 4 a.m. miracle episode of Studio 60, drank a LOT of rum. Yuck! Sort of worked. I almost slept on the floor with the kittens, but it was too hard." 

"This was my lunch hour -- no that was yesterday. Today, I won a director's award at work for "Behind the Scenes." It felt amazing. I can't believe it. My heart rolled down hill about 2:30 p.m., but it was very positive until then. Wow!"

"I don't know what will happen now, but I'm trying out faith."

The five-year one line a day journal is a bit of a page-turner in the summer of 2011 (now known as the lost summer), that is, if you like reading about a 32-car pile-up that starts anew every other day. This, is where the head shake comes into play. I wish I could've stopped my past self, but I can't. I couldn't. I won't. I wouldn't.

There's a line from the T.V. show Lost that's hung around with me for years, "Whatever happened, happened."

That time is so integral to this time. The person I am now, the relationships that held up, and the development of this web series all go back to that. It sort of doesn't even matter why it happened. It's what happened next... 

Not too long ago, a friend brought up the idea of deleting all of the photos of a deceased relationship from Facebook, which is, as you know, where all things come into and out of existence. Without a second thought I said quite frankly, "No. I won't edit my life."

Whatever happened, happened. There's a beginning, a middle, sometimes a false ending, or a false start, and an end, but it all happened. If the middle had an advertisement, it would go something like this: "Come to this place, where the stuff and the things happen. Where the cookie is gooey, and the meat is medium well. Come see the middle of the journal, the middle of the yearbook with the scavenger hunt, the middle of the museum where the giant elephant stares out at you, and you wonder how it lived and how it died. Look at all this stuff in the middle.You there, don't skip over the middle."

"I won't edit my life."

But, after a bit more thought, I did edit my life. I deleted a great deal of photos. They're just pictures, after all, and I don't need them. Anyway, photos sort of lie sometimes, don't they? These did. The important part, the middle, is that I still went to the places I went, and did the things I did. That doesn't go away. I didn't delete that. I wouldn't. I won't. I couldn't. I can't. Whatever happened, happened.

For some reason I was called "Waffle." It happened. I don't know why it happened. I don't know if it was just a passing comment, or if there was a story behind it. It's lost (but not like the show).

Maybe the waffle legend doesn't matter, nor the incomprehensible cheese whiz, yet, they're sitting in a yearbook on my table in nearly 20-year-old handwriting, and they're glorious! At 33, I have no idea what they mean. I love that I have no idea what they mean. I love that I can't comprehend my 16-year-old self, or my 25-year-old self, or even my 29-year-old-self. I love that I shake my head, or laugh in agreement at this person who was me; this person who was "trying out faith."

Izze count, 1. Eggs, cooked and devoured. Writing, accomplished. Yearbook, read, and, you know what?

I do want a never-ending bottle of syrup, and the reason I won't edit my life is because all of that back there -- the good, the bad, the ugly, the sticky, the rum -- is what got me right here, when I donned a pink bandanna scarf to match the ones that dinged through in a photo on my phone on Friday night. Right here? Right here... Is everything.