When I was 5 years old, I fell asleep on the school bus one morning.
It must have been January. I remember that for two reasons: 1) it was cold and snowy, and 2) a girl in my class named LeAnne had recently gotten a pair of enviable puffy purple snow boots for Christmas which she relentlessly talked about and wore nonstop, even indoors. In contrast, I had a pair of hand-me-down canvas fake-Keds shoes which had probably started out white but by the time they became mine they had taken on that very special shade of drabbyshabbysadness. When I walked through snow, it would collect into the peeled glue seam between the sole and the fabric, then soak through as it melted getting my socks all wet.
I remember waking up alone, peeling my droolyface off of the brown plastic seat cover, and realizing that the bus was silent, frigid, and utterly empty. The kids had all been dropped off. The driver had parked the bus and gone. I remember instantly feeling like this unpleasant situation was most definitely my fault. Then, I recall realizing that the sooner I could fix the situation by getting off the bus and finding my way back to kindergarten, the less fallout there would be for my personal sin of falling asleep on the bus.
I had seen the bus driver make the door open countless times -- it involved some combination of magic knobs and switches and a gigantic lever. With trial, error, and herculean kid-strength, I managed to swing the lever and get the door open. The bus was parked in a large open-ended barn in a great big grassy field with all the other school buses, behind the Springerville Public Library where my Mom sometimes took us to check out books. I knew that up over the hill and down the other side I'd find the elementary school, so I just started walking. Uphill in the snow. Seemed like the logical choice.
When I got to the school, I went to the spot on the sidewalk where the bus usually dropped off; where the playground gates were usually open; where the nice recess lady Mrs. Kasoose was usually standing with a welcoming smile. Instead, the gates were locked and the playground was deserted.
I climbed over the chain-link fence. I stumbled my way down the hill and into the front doors to the school office. My shoes were icy, my sweater was drenched, my hands were numb, my ears were on fire, my nose was runny. I was crying with embarrassment, apologizing over and over for falling asleep and missing class and causing so much trouble.
Did I mention I was 5?
My 5-year-old self interpreted this whole thing wildly differently than my adult self.
My adult self sees a littlebitty kid without good winter clothes abandoned in a locked bus then walking a mile in the snow uphill in January alone. My adult self thinks that no kindergartner could possibly stack up to that.
My 5-year-old self just saw a problem and did her best job at fixing it.
Here's my hypothesis:
At any given moment, you are the oldest you've ever been. Thus, maybe in the moment you're more likely to perceive yourself as capable, whereas in hindsight (with the benefit of being even older) you aren't going to think you were even remotely suited to the task. Maybe you're doing things right now simply because you don't know you can't.
At the time, 5 years old was the oldest I'd ever been.
The most wise.
The most qualified.
The most experienced.
I didn't know that I was a littlebitty kid who couldn't handle that. I probably would've sagely agreed that a 3 or 4 year old couldn't do it, but I must have been pretty certain that by the ripe old age of 5 years I was just supposed to take care of business.
Right now, I'm 34. It's the oldest I've ever been.
The most "wise."
The most "qualified."
The most "experienced."
What should I tackle now, before I realize I can't?
It must have been January. I remember that for two reasons: 1) it was cold and snowy, and 2) a girl in my class named LeAnne had recently gotten a pair of enviable puffy purple snow boots for Christmas which she relentlessly talked about and wore nonstop, even indoors. In contrast, I had a pair of hand-me-down canvas fake-Keds shoes which had probably started out white but by the time they became mine they had taken on that very special shade of drabbyshabbysadness. When I walked through snow, it would collect into the peeled glue seam between the sole and the fabric, then soak through as it melted getting my socks all wet.
I remember waking up alone, peeling my droolyface off of the brown plastic seat cover, and realizing that the bus was silent, frigid, and utterly empty. The kids had all been dropped off. The driver had parked the bus and gone. I remember instantly feeling like this unpleasant situation was most definitely my fault. Then, I recall realizing that the sooner I could fix the situation by getting off the bus and finding my way back to kindergarten, the less fallout there would be for my personal sin of falling asleep on the bus.
I had seen the bus driver make the door open countless times -- it involved some combination of magic knobs and switches and a gigantic lever. With trial, error, and herculean kid-strength, I managed to swing the lever and get the door open. The bus was parked in a large open-ended barn in a great big grassy field with all the other school buses, behind the Springerville Public Library where my Mom sometimes took us to check out books. I knew that up over the hill and down the other side I'd find the elementary school, so I just started walking. Uphill in the snow. Seemed like the logical choice.
 |
| It's almost a mile. Sheesh. I'd honestly never mapped it until just now. |
I climbed over the chain-link fence. I stumbled my way down the hill and into the front doors to the school office. My shoes were icy, my sweater was drenched, my hands were numb, my ears were on fire, my nose was runny. I was crying with embarrassment, apologizing over and over for falling asleep and missing class and causing so much trouble.
Did I mention I was 5?
My 5-year-old self interpreted this whole thing wildly differently than my adult self.
My adult self sees a littlebitty kid without good winter clothes abandoned in a locked bus then walking a mile in the snow uphill in January alone. My adult self thinks that no kindergartner could possibly stack up to that.
My 5-year-old self just saw a problem and did her best job at fixing it.
Here's my hypothesis:
At any given moment, you are the oldest you've ever been. Thus, maybe in the moment you're more likely to perceive yourself as capable, whereas in hindsight (with the benefit of being even older) you aren't going to think you were even remotely suited to the task. Maybe you're doing things right now simply because you don't know you can't.
At the time, 5 years old was the oldest I'd ever been.
The most wise.
The most qualified.
The most experienced.
I didn't know that I was a littlebitty kid who couldn't handle that. I probably would've sagely agreed that a 3 or 4 year old couldn't do it, but I must have been pretty certain that by the ripe old age of 5 years I was just supposed to take care of business.
Right now, I'm 34. It's the oldest I've ever been.
The most "wise."
The most "qualified."
The most "experienced."
What should I tackle now, before I realize I can't?
