County Fair

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.