Yep, I was that girl. I chalk it up to my parents not buying video games or Giga Pets for my sister and me. Instead of zoning out to Arthur and Oprah after school, I'd hole up in my room, play some Relient K on my boom box (which I thought was, like, totally rad), and scribble dramatic thoughts in my Mead, black marble, wide-ruled composition book, on which I placed my most prized stickers. Oh, the secrets those loyal notebooks kept.
You guessed it. Boys. I'd document that my crush smiled at me in keyboarding class, I'd play MASH with my best friend, crossing my fingers that I'd marry the cute boy and not have to live in a shack. And if that wasn't enough, I'd write the sappiest of entries about my hopes and dreams of finding my own Gilbert Blythe. Anne Shirley was just so lucky.
But through my old journals, which are now safely stowed in the depths of my closet (a.k.a. Mordor), I am able to keep in touch with little Maggie - the girl whose idea of love was tied to Anne of Green Gables and A Cinderella Story. And even littler Maggie - the child whose life goal was to annoy her big sister and become an astronaut (in that order). And even high school Maggie - the teenager who finally understood heartbreak beyond books and movies.
I still journal. Not as often as I'd like, but from time to time, I'll grab a Sharpie pen and scrawl in my Anthropologie leather-bound journal (I have strayed from Lisa Frank, believe it or not), and I write about who I am now - about what my life feels like. So when I'm Momma Maggie, or Grandma Maggie, or just old Maggie, I'll be able to remember this life I'm living.
And, if the grand ol' Internet is still a thing, saggy Maggie just might grab her futuristic tablet and dive within the catacombs of cyberspace, dust off this old post, and give it a read.