Letter to Me

I heard the Brad Paisley song, "Letter to Me" today, and decided I'd like to write a letter to my own 17-year-old self. Of course, I'm going to eschew the musical format, on account of I can't carry a tune in a bucket.

Dear Veronica,

This is your future self. Yes, you do live past 50. Yes, I know this is difficult to believe, but you've got a True Confessions magazine and four sticks of Juicyfruit gum behind the picture over your dresser. See? Even Mom never found that!

OK, here goes. Rick Tilley is a predator. I don't care that he is the son of one of the leading lights in St. John's Anglican Church; a 22-year-old has no business dating a 17-year-old. Just because your parents are too naive to see it is no reason for you to be an idiot. Dump him. Trust me, True Love is out there--you just have to wait a while and stop kissing frogs. Frogs are frogs, and none of them is going to turn into a prince any time soon.

Now, you are going to Simon Fraser University in a few months. Here's a thought: take Theater. I know you have no clue, but you loved the Shakespeare in Mrs Beaubier's English class, didn't you? Did she not tell you that you read eloquently? How many public speaking contests have you entered in the past two years? How many have you either won or finished in second place? Your biggest disappointment of your senior year was being passed over for the narrator of the Christmas Pageant in the Christmas talent show. GET A CLUE! You will love theater, so sign up for it in college. You CAN pass the audition. Just use one of those monologues you had to memorize for English class. Trust me, it's more fun than the boys you'll find if you don't.

Speaking of dating, when you get to Simon Fraser, and some boy wants you to go to a Swedish movie, skip it. Or, if you do go, don't be afraid to walk out if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Skip the Bergman festival, too, but take in the Eisenstein.

Learn to drive. Really. Get Sheila or her dad to teach you, because you know Dad won't.

You can bake really good bread when you're angry.

There is a song you will learn in a couple of years that has this for a chorus:

"You've got to sing like you don't need the money,
Love like you'll never get hurt,
Dance like nobody's watching;
It's got to come from the heart if you want it to work."

That's better advice than I could ever give you. There is no Dress Rehearsal. You should have learned that last year at the Awards Ceremony when you had to go up and get that medal, and you crept up there as if you were going to get slapped. I know that, later, you knew you should have sashayed up there like the winner you are.

Get on out of that little town, but don't burn your bridges--it will always be nice to come back.

Oh...and you were right about the Beatles, and Dad was WAAAAY wrong. Just so you know. Take down all those posters before you go to college and keep them in good condition. You will be glad you did.

With love,

Ronni