Baked Wet Socks
I don’t believe I will ever understand life changing moments. Now that’s not to say I don’t understand how the death of a loved one, or a near death experience, can change your world or anything like that – those are pretty obvious. What I'm talking about are those small moments that go relatively unnoticed, and severely unappreciated.
The moments I'm talking about are ones like the first time you make yourself Kraft-Dinner when you're five or six years old, having that feeling of pure independence even if half the powdered cheese fluffs onto the burner, making your kitchen stink of baked wet-socks. In a way - as small as it is - your life is changed forever. You can officially fend for yourself, and don’t need mom or dad to come running every time you’re hungry. It’s one of the first feelings of accomplishment, like being able to colour inside the lines, or ride a bike sans-training wheels. You’re now old enough to feel accomplishment, and realize what that really means. As we get older, we don’t notice these small accomplishments as much as we should. It seems so trivial amongst all the other goings on in the big, bad world.
For me once I sat back and really thought about it, I have so many of these little memories to revel in. They may not all be accomplishments, but they all changed me, and gave me a different sense of being.
One of my favourite moments was prompted by finding an old Polaroid photo of me and my father sitting in a bowl chair, watching the hockey game. I couldn't have been more than two or three years old. I have to explain this was during my “I'm a teenager and my parents don’t know jack about shit, I hate them blah blah blah” years. Once I found this photo, I got a swift kick in the arse and remembered how much my father loved me, and how much my hatred was completely unfounded. Another marking time would be the complete sense of calm, something I hadn't felt since my mother passed away back in 2013, when I walked along the red-sanded beaches of PEI.
The last I’ll write here was finally perfecting a pecan pie; mastering the pecan to filling ratio. I was almost scared to taste it, because all my failed attempts were either dryer than Ben Stein, or sweet to diabetic coma levels. But this time, this time I nailed it. So much so it was gone not an hour later, how much I ate of it I’ll never tell.
So I suppose I just want to leave you all with a question, more so a request. Take a minute and give thanks to all the tiny things, and moments in your life that make you, you. You, and those itty-bitty things deserve it.
Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot.