Dear Annie,
Last night, your mom sent me the sweetest email. She told me that you are 13, and found my blog when you Googled your own name. I think it’s so cool that you have continued to read my posts, and that from hundreds of miles away, we are connected. It’s like I have a friend that I never knew about. If my friends Paul Zimmerman-Clayton or Elliott Eicheldinger were to Google their names, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t find blog friends. So you and I are lucky.

First off, you have the greatest name. My parents thought about naming me Molly, but Molly Parsons sounded too much like Dolly Parton, so they went with Annie. My real name is Anne, but I’ve never been an “Anne.” In fact, I’ve decided that if I ever get married, I’m going to drop my middle name and officially change my name to Annie Parsons [_________] – that way, I can forever be called “Annie P” or “AP,” two very frequent nicknames that I’ve grown fond of.

And if I never get married, I might do it anyway: legally change my first name to “Annie.” And then maybe add some awesome name to the end – like… Annie Parsons Fox, or something. Or maybe I’ll just change my name to Octavia?

So, not knowing anything about you aside from the fact that you’re named Annie Parsons and you’re 13 and you read my blog, I’m wondering what it is that I could say to you – or to any other 13-year old who might happen across this post. I don’t claim to know much about this world or this life, but if I could go back and talk to myself at 13, this is what I would say.

Learn to use chopsticks. Somewhere, someday, you’ll be glad that you know how.

Read a lot of books. Books are amazing, and there are way too many good ones to ever read them all. I recommend “A Little Princess” and “The Secret Garden” and “A Wrinkle In Time.”

People will tell you that there’s no such thing as magic, but they’re wrong. Keep your eyes peeled for beauty. Don’t let anyone steal your imagination.

Sometimes it can be hard to be nice to the people that we love the most… but be nice to your family. Love them. If you have siblings, they can be your best friends. So can your mom. So can your dad. I didn’t realize this until after I moved away from home at 18 – but I wish I had learned it sooner.

Whatever it is that you love – whether it’s piano or art or softball or ballet or whatever – keep doing it. Practice a lot. You have this window of time to learn and grow and improve, and you’ll be so thankful someday that you took the time to stretch yourself.

I know that it’s really hard, but try not to gossip.

It’s fine if you haven’t kissed a boy yet. It’s TOTALLY fine. I didn’t know that at 13 – and I watched my friends get kissed, one by one, and started to feel like I was an ugly snail, the one that no one ever wanted. And trust me – it took me a long time to get kissed. Like, a lot more years past age 13. But then, it happened, and it was so great, and it didn’t matter how old I was.

And finally: things totally get better. I don’t know, Annie – you might be the most popular girl in your class, and feel confident and beautiful and completely awesome. But at 13, I sure didn’t. I felt awkward and clumsy and never knew what to say or how to be “cool.” I wanted people to like me – and yeah, of course I still do. But once I got to college, I realized that most people were starting to discover that they’d much rather hang out with those who are interesting, and kind, and uniquely themselves.

So if you’re feeling super lame today, don’t. Just keep being exactly who you are. It’s a good thing – I know it.

Love,
Annie

- To go to bed every night by 10pm?
- To attempt to eat from the food pyramid?
- To create a budget?
- To have kids I used to babysit for getting engaged?
- To have friends getting married?
- To have friends getting divorced?
- To have friends getting boob jobs?
- To have a retirement account?
- To buy age-defying makeup?
- To experience an existential crisis?
- To worry – really worry – about the world, the environment, and the government?
- To refer to myself as a “woman,” and not as a “girl”?
- To plan my upcoming weekend around home improvement projects?

That’s right, folks. My weekend will be consumed with stripping and refinishing some bedroom furniture. And when I say “stripping,” I am referring to paint, and not to my clothing. Although that would most certainly give the neighbors something to talk about.

I have absolutely no idea how to go about this task – but that’s what the internet is for. I am researching the appropriate methods online, and then crossing my fingers as I begin the job this evening. Here’s hoping that Monday brings a glorious victory post, and not an “L is for LAME.”

Last night, I had a job interview that lasted an hour and a half. This potential employer and I talked spiritedly and candidly about everything from music to the environment to Telluride to writing to disappointment to, strangely, even Jesus. It was surreal, and wonderful, and stimulating. The job is something that I could excel at, and it might potentially lead to some cool perks. This man seemed impressed by me, calling me a “Renaissance Woman,” which is a very cool thing to be thought of as. It was clear that we had a likely chance at developing a great rapport, and working well together.

But he and I both hesitated. Something just didn’t feel right, and we both acknowledged it.

This job could have been a very cool thing. I mean, seriously cool. Like, hanging out with Keith and Nicole cool. But is that what I want? Is that what I want my life to be about? Is glamour what I am aiming for? In the case of my far-too-slow-growing mop of hair, absolutely. But when it comes down to what makes my heart beat, I realize that it’s not about the perks. It’s not about the bright lights and the fabulous people and the free drinks. It’s not about the tinsel.

I really want to write. And at this point in my life, I am not willing to sacrifice the time and space and flexibility that make writing possible. I want to see where the words and melodies and harmonies and expression might lead.

The decision to pass on the position wound up being far easier than I anticipated. And after a long spell of uncertainty, it feels good to be so sure of what I want.

I don’t want to grow up.

I don’t want to think about insurance, and a 401k, and heart disease, and my future. I don’t want to get creaky knees. I don’t want to learn how to cook a turkey. I don’t want to make hard decisions, and be the responsible one, and do my own taxes.

I really don’t want to buy a fly-swatter.

For some reason, buying a fly-swatter feels like this very adult thing to do. I’ve never bought a fly-swatter before, because my parents (the GROWN UPS) always had one. True, I have not lived with my parents for almost 8 years now, but somehow I have escaped ever needing one while not having access to one.

I currently have three monstrous, enormous flies in my apartment. They’re huge, and they’re like needy little kids, or puppies, in that when I’m home, they ALWAYS WANT TO HANG OUT WITH ME. They buzz and fly and land on my lotioned legs. My lotion must smell good – either that, or I smell like a pile of crap. I suppose that flies aren’t too picky.

Last night, while reading in bed, the flies hummed around my head. I took my Paulo Coelho paperback and swatted at them a few times, but they couldn’t take the hint. Flies can be so rude.

I have waited a few days, thinking that they might just die in my apartment. But there are enough coffee grounds and banana peels in my trash can for them to live a long and satisfying life. It’s time that I take action.

It’s time to be a big girl. It’s time to buy a fly-swatter, and go on an insect-killing spree. It’s time to defend my house and home.

Sigh. Everyone has to grow up some time. Unfortunately for the flies, the embracing of my adulthood is going to result in their rather violent demise. They will see my murderous form duplicated over and over in their multi-faceted eyes, and that will be the last thing that they see… and see… and see… before being flattened.

I’m pretty sure that I’ll let out a “HA-CHAH!” too. Because I am a grown up.

This weekend, I talked to a 7-year old girl who had recently lost her first tooth. A gap in her grin, Claire told me that no, it didn’t hurt when the tooth fell out. Something about the momentous occasion that losing your first tooth ever is took me back to my own experience of the occasion.

I remember having that tiny bottom baby tooth, no bigger than a Tic-Tac, wiggling back and forth, back and forth. My tongue would push it around each day, loosening its bond with the gum, fretfully anticipating the day when it would finally fall out. My older brother Jeremy had already lost several teeth, and he assured me that it was a crazy experience – painful and traumatic – a right of passage that he had survived, and valiantly, but not without agony. He encouraged me to tie a piece of dental floss around the tooth, and attach it to a door, which he offered to slam; this would be a far less torturous experience than the slow, natural process.

I was terrified.

In my limited knowledge, I believed my brother. My fear forced me into trusting that his experience would be mine, too – that this was going to be the most harrowing event of my young life. And there was no escaping it. Unquestionably, the tooth was going to fall out, like it or not – and I would probably lose a lethal amount of blood in the process.

How often do we take someone else’s word for it? I know that I regularly listen to other people’s accounts of their exploits, good or bad, and assume that if I tried the same thing, my experience would be identical. My fear keeps me firmly imprisoned in settling for the truth that others have experienced, and not challenging myself to test the waters on my own.

But I am relishing my new-found callously courageous existence. I am learning to trust my gut, and make bold moves simply because what if it works? I am finding the balance between listening to the advice of those trusted friends who have earned the right to speak into my life, and letting go of the inessential pointers from the peanut gallery.

I think this is what “growing up” feels like.

When my first tooth finally fell out, it was painless. I felt around with my tongue, detecting the vacant hole where the tooth had once stood, and thinking that the gap that was left felt impossibly large. I lived. And the next time, I wasn’t so afraid.