New Year's Promise

excerpt from my memoir-in-process

snowy night in Kirksville, MO

Dear reader:

Until I started publishing on Substack, I mostly felt like writing about myself was no big deal. You know, I am who I am, including my past, and now my life is just material. But as those of you who write true things about your own true selves know, it can be hard making the transition to having readers you didn’t handpick.

Part of my process toward eventually publishing a memoir was and continues to be getting more eyes on excerpts along the way. (Those are your eyes I’m talking about! If you’re reading this, thank you!) For me, this is a kind of writing exposure therapy.

But also, I’m hoping maybe someone reading this will take a little courage from it and know you’re not alone in your own uncertainties about putting yourself and your writing out there. All I can say is that you may never know if you’re ready until you try.

On that note, this week I’m sharing a section of a piece that looks back at my very unglamorous college-age world. This particular excerpt starts with the promise I made myself all those years ago: not to be too hard on youthful me when I looked back from my cushy older age perch. Guess what! I’m finally on that perch and feeling super lucky and glad to be here.

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Right around the time I got my first college apartment, I made myself a promise. I would never let older, wiser me look back and beat younger me up about the bad decisions I was in the process of making. Because seriously, how was I going to enjoy myself if future me was in the background shouting “no!” the whole time?

So relatively clueless/reckless twenty-year old Priscilla says to sassy sixty Priscilla, “how will I know anything about anything if I don’t even try?” (Oh let me count the ways.) Replies Sassy Sixty: “Just don’t do anything that’ll kill you or get you locked up for a long time.”

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New Year’s eve 1988. You’re sitting in your favorite horseshoe booth at the bar, wearing a short, sleeveless, low-cut but slinky black dress. Your jewelry, like the dress, was a Maurice’s mall purchase on credit. Making totally unnecessary purchases on credit is one of the many things that shoots little zings of “should I?” usually quickly followed by “screw it, I’m gonna be paying off my student loans for the rest of my life, so I might as well look good doing it.”

The matching earrings and necklace are little drops of glass each framed in oxidized metal. The necklace loops your pale neck three times and still spills between your breasts. The earrings are long, too, brushing your bare shoulders when you lean in to hear what your friends are saying. A couple of coworkers were the only people you could talk into coming out tonight because it is freezing outside. Plus some of the snow that had made for a Hallmark card Christmas melted a bit midday, then refroze as the sun went down, leaving a layer of slush on top of ice on top of snow. As far as you’re concerned this is no big deal, plus you live close enough to the bar to scoot home pretty fast at the end of the night.

At this age, guys you don’t know sometimes have a waitress bring you free drinks. If they’re more observant, the men notice what you’re drinking and buy you another. But mostly it’s disgustingly sweet shots with names like Sex on the Beach, Slow Screw, or Hard Screw Up Against the Wall.

The drink-senders seem to either be looking for a shocked, appropriately ladylike reaction, a relatively cheap thrill for them as their buddies laugh and slap them on the back. Or they hope you’re drunk enough to feel flattered and invite them over to your table.

This is one of those nights where you end up back at some guy you’ve never met’s apartment. He was astute enough to buy you another Tanqueray and tonic. While playing pool against him with your creamy cleavage on full display, you learned he’s a med student. Now you’re sitting on his couch kissing and talking like you do when you think you’ve met your soulmate because he seemed to like it when you beat him at pool. Trying to keep your wits about you, you ask what area of medicine he’s interested in. He says “cosmetic surgery.” Running an index finger along your jawline he adds “you know, you could be really pretty with just a little bit of work.”

You don’t ask what kind of work he has in mind. The color rises from your breasts all the way up your neck and pinks up your cheeks. Despite the cold apartment, you’ve started to sweat, seemingly through every pore of your body. You are, as they used to say, spitting tacks mad.

Your bladder is full almost to bursting, but you don’t even take the time to find the bathroom before leaving. You want out of there, like, now. While stuffing your cigarettes and lighter in your purse, you mutter something about getting back before your (nonexistent) roommate calls out the cavalry to look for you. He is, of course, totally clueless.

In the alley behind his building, you tug down your tights, expertly squatting despite high heels and a gin buzz. You pee until all the snow around your feet melts. You sigh the deep satisfied sigh of a woman who has dodged a bullet and didn’t have to waste any time finding out who this ridiculous person really is. You ease your tights back up, smooth your skirt down, and head for home where a hot bath and a nightcap will wash the last of the year away.

the author, New Year’s 1988

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