A Pirate Looks at 30

There is a box of summer clothes I just pulled down from the attic in the spare bedroom. Sitting on the floor, looking through it, I realized so much about me has changed. I found babydoll shirts bragging about my (fictional) membership in the mile-high club, proclaiming "I Need Supervision", and one with strategically placed shiny pink dice that I got from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas. That is my summer wardrobe. Or was. That isn't me anymore. I am someone new. I am someone old. I am 30. Today is my 30th birthday; and as I look back through the years, through the clothes in that box, I can see all the different colors, shapes, and sizes in my past. There are bright, colorful things...extra large, crazy things...dark, ugly things...and quite a few sarcastic "Fuck you"'s in there. So many of my favorites have gotten worn, others are threadbare and ragged. Some even have holes in them, those lost hours I can't remember. But sitting on the floor, pawing through the past, I find there is very little I can let go. Even that silly shirt with the leather lace-up front, and that cute bikini my mommy hips will never let me wear again. But maybe I don't want to let them go. Maybe I like remembering my good days and bad days, my fat days and skinny days. There's plenty of room in the attic. And I can always move some things around if I need the space. So that box will go right back up there, skinny shorts and all. Who knows, maybe someday my daughter will find a few things in there that fit her as well as they once fit me.