When I was little, my mom got this idea that I needed a pen pal. I'm not entirely sure what the point of this exercise was--all of my pen pals came from slightly distant towns in other parts of Ohio, so it wasn't a cultural experience. My writing skills were already on par for my age level, so it wasn't an attempt at improvement. I think it was a sneaky way to try to make me make friends. I didn't particularly want a pen pal, but it beat the push-me-into-activities-I-didn't-want-to-be-in phase, so I went with it.
My pen pals hated me. They tried, they really did. I'd get frequent and lengthy letters on brightly colored Lisa Frank stationary, detailing life on the other side of the state. I didn't try as hard. Most of the time, I really did mean to write back, I just never got around to it and when I did, I was never sure what I was supposed share and what I wasn't. I'd end up returning short, awkward little blurbs on whatever scrap of paper I could find. I had nice paper and stickers and all that, but I was saving for something special. I'm not sure what, but when the time came, I would know. Most of my pen pals got sick of me pretty quickly and my mom would set off on the arduous task of finding someone in the neighborhood with a niece or grandchild who was willing to be my friend.
As much as I didn't really care about having a pen pal, I still remember every single one of them and while I don't necessarily wonder what any of them are up to, I do like to make up weird little where they're at stories in my head from time to time. That's probably one of those creepy things I should keep to myself, but what's this blog for if not oversharing? (And neglecting.) Also, nothing special ever happened and I think my mom eventually gave my box of stickers to her daycare kids. It's okay. I have new stickers and they're better anyway.
And while my intentions are always good, I'm still terrible about mailing things.
